Blogs - Grace Upon Gracehttps://graceupongrace.net/blog/Tue, 19 Feb 2019 03:53:09 +0000en-USSite-Server v6.0.0-17058-17058 (http://www.squarespace.com)It’s the Little ThingsChroniclesBrad GrayFri, 15 Feb 2019 12:01:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/the-little-things5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5c66a2019b747a5ab9008adcWe recently took a trip to Boston, Massachusetts to see the Boston Celtics
face off against the Golden State Warriors in the TD Garden in the heart of
downtown Boston. This was easily one of my favorite experiences. As an
ardent NBA fan, and Golden State hater, it was a joy to join the virulent
Celtic-fanbase in throwing jeers at the visiting Warriors players.We recently took a trip to Boston, Massachusetts to see the Boston Celtics face off against the Golden State Warriors in the TD Garden in the heart of downtown Boston. This was easily one of my favorite experiences. As an ardent NBA fan, and Golden State hater, it was a joy to join the virulent Celtic-fanbase in throwing jeers at the visiting Warriors players. The weekend trip was something of a “baby-moon” for the wife and I, too (with our second due at the end of April). Besides taking in the spectacle of a nationally televised NBA game, we walked the frigid streets of Boston and took in the history of the city. We visited the Boston Tea Party Museum and were educated on all the events that led up to the infamous “tea party” wherein hundreds of crates of British tea were bitterly tossed into the harbor. As a somewhat of a history enthusiast, I was intrigued by the display and was pleasantly surprised by what was actually involved with this “tea party.” (Seriously, it was a lot more work than just tossing tea bags over the side of a boat.)

We didn’t really plan our trip that well though, because after the game and getting back to our hotel extremely late, we had to wake up at 4 AM to catch an Uber to the Boston airport. Needless to say, that part of the trip wasn’t very fun. And to make matters worse, in the scramble of late-sleeping and early-rising and Uber-haling, we lost $50. Now, $50 might not seem like that much of a loss — to others that is an incredible amount — but the loss was compounded by a case of the absolute worst timing imaginable. Not that there ever would be a “good time” to lose $50, but coming to this dreaded realization in the midst of “one of those days” in which your two-year-old cries about everything but doesn’t want anything you offer her, leading to an exasperated wife and a less than tolerable toddler . . . on top of getting the beloved maintenance report from the service shop on some critical repairs that needed to be done on my vehicle. I nearly fainted when I not only heard what needed fixing but what it would cost. In the midst of all that, my wife and I could find no other recourse other than to throw up our arms in surrender to the fate of the day. If that’s how it was going to be, then fine, whatever. “We give up.” Let’s just get this day over with and start over tomorrow, shall we?

But upon further reflection on this “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day,” I thought to myself, There’s nothing ‘good’ that comes from my hands, my abilities, my competency. Indeed, everything that’s good comes from outside of me, from Another, from the Source of all that is good and beautiful. “Every good and perfect gift,” writes James, “is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, who does not change like the shifting shadows.” (James 1:17) The day of terrible news and lost things might’ve been a chance conglomeration of bad luck, but it’s also indicative what happens when I take my life in my own hands. When I tightly grip the course of my days and times, what results is never something good. Rather, my efforts amount to nothing more than a man furiously trying to grasp water or wind in his hands. So writes the beloved Charles Spurgeon (36):

“A man might as well hope to hold the north wind in the palm of his hand as expect to control, by his own strength, those boisterous powers which exist within his fallen nature.”

It’s in these little things where I find God speaking most loudly and clearly, “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Ps. 46:10) Perhaps it’s through altering the course of your career or personal life, or it’s through losing $50 or spilling milk, whatever the scenario, God’s desirous of you coming to the end of yourself in the realization that you control nothing. All that I am and do is bound up in Christ’s sovereignty and sufficiency. I testify along with the psalmist that the “course of my life” is in the powerful, providential hands of my Father. (Ps. 31:15) I feel this experientially.

God is certainly expunging me from all reliance on myself. I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway where he laments after another failed suicide attempt that he can’t even die on his own terms — similarly, I can’t even control my life on my own terms. That’s how not in control I am. And I’m learning to be okay with that. Because the gospel tells me what is categorically true: That in the midst of my failure to control anything is my God’s incontrovertible control over everything.

“I am the Lord, and there is no other; there is no God but me. I will strengthen you, though you do not know me, so that all may know from the rising of the sun to its setting that there is no one but me. I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness, I make success and create disaster; I am the Lord, who does all these things.” (Isa. 45:5-7)

References

]]>It’s the Little ThingsFeasting On & Investing in Jesus: The Gospel’s Disruption of LeisureCommentariesBrad GrayTue, 12 Feb 2019 12:00:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/feasting-investing-christ5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da97c4997bae3a1651a0At the beginning of the Book of Revelation, it’s revealed that Jesus
himself has instructed John the apostle to not only write down what he’s
seen but also to send accounts of his vision along with specific missives
to the “seven churches in Asia.”At the beginning of the Book of Revelation, it’s revealed that Jesus himself has instructed John the apostle to not only write down what he’s seen but also to send accounts of his vision along with specific missives to the “seven churches in Asia” (Rev. 1:4, 11), those being, Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea. Each of these congregations, then, received a unique word from God through the pen of John, with the precise language of these letters found in Revelation 2–3. What’s clear in each of the seven letters is Jesus’s inexorable determination to stir and to strengthen the faith of his children in each church body. As every church context was different, so is the language employed — but, nonetheless, the intent is still the same. Through his apostle, Christ aims to reorient and reinvigorate his people through a revelation of himself. (Rev. 1:1)

And so it is that as John writes the seventh of these letters to the church at Laodicea, he does so in such a way that he might disrupt their leisurely lives with the urgency and currency of the gospel.

Lay of the land.

Laodicea was a prominent city, laying approximately 90 miles east of Ephesus and 11 miles west of Colossae. I note the geography of this town because integral to understanding what John does in this letter is understanding what Paul wrote decades prior. Near the end of his letter to the Colossians, the apostle Paul writes the following:

“Epaphras, who is one of you, a servant of Christ Jesus, sends you greetings. He is always wrestling for you in his prayers, so that you can stand mature and fully assured in everything God wills. For I testify about him that he works hard for you, for those in Laodicea, and for those in Hierapolis. Luke, the dearly loved physician, and Demas send you greetings. Give my greetings to the brothers and sisters in Laodicea, and to Nympha and the church in her home. After this letter has been read at your gathering, have it read also in the church of the Laodiceans; and see that you also read the letter from Laodicea.” (Col. 4:12–16)

Paul’s heart isn’t only for the Colossians but for the Laodiceans to, likewise, be strengthened by his epistle — which, in fact, many believe to have been a “circular letter,” that is, a letter that was circulated throughout local churches. This, I believe, is significant once the intent of Colossians is brought to light. The apostle’s purpose is stated quite clearly at the beginning of the second chapter.

“For I want you to know how greatly I am struggling for you, for those in Laodicea, and for all who have not seen me in person. I want their hearts to be encouraged and joined together in love, so that they may have all the riches of complete understanding and have the knowledge of God’s mystery — Christ.” (Col. 2:1–2)

I would have you pay careful attention to that phrase, “all the riches of complete understanding” of “God’s mystery,” of the gospel. It’s not by mistake or happenstance that Paul employs financial language when speaking to the Colossians and Laodiceans. Nor is it coincidental that John similarly speaks in monetary terms. Such language, no doubt, would’ve cut to the quick of each of the Laodiceans’ lives.

Leisure and luxury.

Laodicea, you see, was an extremely wealthy town which was populated by prosperous citizens in various industries but specializing in finance and textiles. It is said that the city was especially known for its manufacturing of black woolen cloth, which held high value in trade and commerce centers. Its profitability is further understood by remembering the terrible earthquake of A.D. 60 which utterly leveled the city and the fact that its entire infrastructure was rebuilt without the aid of Roman subsidies. The Laodiceans outright refused the imperial assistance of Rome and restored their city of their own means. To be sure, the Laodiceans were wealthy, affluent people.

And so it is that Paul’s and John’s letters to them deal so strongly with economic language. It’s clear to me that Jesus’s emphasis to the church at Laodicea, through the inspired pens of his apostles, seems to be a stern reminder about where they ought to find their true treasure, where they were to invest their lives. Not in the industry they can amass here “under the sun,” but in the inheritance of the incarnate Son of God, in whom is found the express image of the fullness of God himself and with whom is given the gift of redemption. (Col. 1:12–17)

The Laodiceans might’ve appeared wealthy and well-off, but Christ perceived their truly impoverished state. To the human eye they appeared “healthy, wealthy, and wise,” yet the Spirit of God knew them for who they truly were: a spiritually broke people coasting in leisure and luxury. Notwithstanding the riches they enjoyed “under the sun,” they accumulated no spiritual wealth on which to boast.

Therefore, in this missive to the church at Laodicea, I think three noteworthy truths rise to the surface regarding how the gospel of God totally disrupts our leisure.

A lesson about spiritual work.

The Spirit of God begins his counsel by examining the Laodiceans’ works, rather, their lack of works. He calls attention to their tepid, apathetic attitude towards the things of God. “I know your works,” the Spirit incisively says, “that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were cold or hot.” (Rev. 3:15) “No one else may know you,” he seems to say, “but I do. I know the true you. I see through your spiritual, religious façade, and it disgusts me.”

I, like you, perhaps, have heard a number of sermons utilizing this passage as inspiration for more intensified spiritual passion, no doubt in the context of missions or evangelistic settings. “Are you on fire for God?” the preacher might say. “Be hot for Jesus!” I find myself squirming at such language and not just because it sounds awkward, but because I don’t think that was the Spirit’s original intent. His counsel, here, is geared more towards the ends of “be spiritually healthy.”

It’s not that cold and hot here represent opposite poles on a spiritual spectrum of discipleship and dedication. God’s words to them are, “You are lukewarm. I’d rather you be cold or hot” (Rev. 3:15) — by which he’s not inviting them to coldness of spirit. Rather, by this he means to inspire a reinvigoration of spiritual health and fervor and vitality. Water that’s lukewarm offers neither refreshment (like cold water) or remedy (like hot water). Lukewarmness is, in effect, worthless, useless.

“I know your works,” the Spirit says to them. God, the searcher of hearts knew that for which their hearts were truly pining. The Laodiceans were more interested in their lucrative businesses than the business of the gospel. Wealth and financial success had made them indifferent toward spiritual works. Within this church, there existed neither a brightly burning zeal for the things of God nor outright rejection of him. Instead, there festered a nauseating case of lukewarmness — a condition so nauseating and disgusting to our Lord Jesus that he’d rather vomit them out of his mouth. (Rev. 3:16) Which isn’t to say that he’s removing the promise of salvation from them. Rather, he’s vehemently disrupting their leisurely, apathetic attitude toward the things of God.

“Five thousand members of a church all lukewarm will be five thousand impediments.” (Charles Spurgeon)

And so it is that we see just how much God despises lukewarm, lackadaisical Christianity. Those who profess Christ but reserve for themselves lives of worldly comfort and safety and security are revolting and repulsive. Not that we can’t enjoy the prosperity with which God blesses us, but where’s the gospel for you? What’s your priority? Your riches in industry or riches in redemption? Such is what the Spirit of God admonishes in this letter.

The Laodiceans appeared to be okay with their status quo Christian lives. They were okay being “unconcerned spectators” on the sidelines of the Great Commission. But such a position doesn’t exist in the business of the gospel. “You are,” writes Octavius Winslow (24), “either for Christ, or you are against Christ. In this great controversy between Christ and Satan, you are not an indifferent and unconcerned spectator.” The gospel of God, the revelation of Jesus Christ, is not a collection of spiritual theories that serve as endless debate fodder for academics and scholars alike. It is the glad tidings of great joy that announces Jesus’s restoration and rescue project for all creation. And with this announcement comes specific implications in tow. (Namely, the Fruit of the Spirit. See Gal. 5:22–23.)

Where you find redeemed people, you will find evidences of their redemption.

A lesson about spiritual wealth.

The Laodiceans enjoyed lives of luxury and leisure. Their metropolitan lifestyles afforded them many prosperous indulgences seldom enjoyed by neighboring cities. They practiced extravagant lifestyles that flaunted their self-assure and self-sufficient outlooks. But for all their wealth and prosperity, they were blind to who they truly were — to who they were in the eyes of God. “For you say, ‘I’m rich; I have become wealthy and need nothing,’ and you don’t realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked.” (Rev. 3:17) Wealth had not only made them apathetic and indifferent towards the things of God, it had blinded them of their need for God. They considered themselves financially and spiritually wealthy — but in God’s eyes they were bankrupt, “wretched, miserable, poor, blind, naked.”

This censure from the Lord Jesus isn’t necessarily because of their finances, rather, it was because of their faith. They mistook their financial success for self-sufficiency, giving them a false sense of security. This is the classic pattern of those blessed by God: mistaking his blessing for their own abilities. It’s easy to assign the Spirit’s blessing on our profitability and mistake the fact that we are dreadfully out of step with God’s words and ways. And rather than being “rich towards God” (Luke 12:21), we are often “rich towards ourselves.” This is when we need to pray for the Spirit’s grace which not only helps us in our need, but also open our eyes to recognize our need. Such is how the Spirit of God counsels this church.

“I advise you to buy from me gold refined in the fire so that you may be rich, white clothes so that you may be dressed and your shameful nakedness not be exposed, and ointment to spread on your eyes so that you may see.” (Rev. 3:18)

Christ’s counsel to this church constitutes the precise remedy to account for all their spiritual needs. Notice how completely Jesus’s words to them resolves their insolvency. In him they find dress to cover their nakedness. And not just any dress, mind you, these are white robes of his own righteousness, the very “garments of salvation.” (Isa. 61:10) In him their pitiful, poor estate is suffused with Christ’s riches. In him their sightless eyes would be mended by his gracious balm. In Jesus Christ alone they would be venerated, clothed, and made to see again.

What’s more, the word “buy,” here, is the same word for “redeem,” meaning “to buy back.” Rather than investing their time and money and energy in increasing their industrious reach in this world, Jesus’s declaration to them is to invest in spiritual wealth. Invest in the gospel. To find their treasure in God’s free redemption. (Rev. 21:6; Isa. 55:1) To find their fortune in the glorious gospel that reminds us all that we’ve been bought back by the very blood of God. (Rev. 5:9)

It is this same gospel, then, that serves as the Spirit’s final lesson to the church at Laodicea.

A lesson about a spiritual welcome.

The entirety of these severe disciplinary remarks are bathed in the Holy Spirit’s love for this church. “As many as I love,” he say, “I rebuke and discipline. So be zealous and repent.” (Rev. 3:19) “Love,” here, is suggestive of a deep, passionate affection. Christ isn’t lamblasting this church, he’s loving them in a critical way, at a critical time. Rather than laying down a tyrannical rule on a body of believers that had lost its way, the Lord Jesus comes alongside them as a parent would their children, disciplining them not out of a spirit anger or frustration but out of love.

“Christ does not, therefore, love his children because he corrects them: but he therefore corrects them because he loves them.” (Burkitt, 943)

It’s out of love, not hatred, that the Spirit of God reprimands the Laodiceans. “As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten.” (Rev. 3:19) “Do not despise the Lord’s instruction, my son, and do not loathe his discipline; for the Lord disciplines the one he loves, just as a father disciplines the son in whom he delights.” (Prov. 3:11–12; cf. Job 5:17–18; Prov. 13:24; Heb. 12:5–7) By such words he calls them to repentance, to restoration. “I want to rebuke your leisurely lifestyles and remind you of the treasure of the grace,” the Spirit seems to say. “I want to disrupt your lives of luxury and remind you of the currency of the gospel.” He succeeds his correction of them with an invitation to fellowship with him once again.

“See! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me. To the one who conquers I will give the right to sit with me on my throne, just as I also conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne.” (Rev. 3:20–21)

This beautiful picture of Christ opening his house to us, sitting with us, and dining with us is not only a wonderful image of the renewed communion that’s enjoyed in repentance, but is also a stirring reminder of how we ought to feast on Christ’s body. The King James renders the phrase “eat with him” as “sup with him.” The word “sup,” there, is the same word used at the Last Supper, when Christ broke the bread and distributed the cup, instituting the Eucharist in which believers of every age might remember the covenant of God’s blood poured out for them. (Luke 22:19–20) In a graphic but gracious picture, we’re made to see that Jesus’s summons to come and dine is an invitation to feast on him. “The Supper,” says Gerhard Forde (85–86), “is a place where God literally lays himself open to us and says, ‘Here you have me.’”

And so it is that the great remedy for our lackadaisical Christianity is a continual remembrance of the gospel of Jesus’s bruised and bloodied body proffered to us on a tree. The only effectual antidote for the indifference of leisure and independence of hubris is a resounding recollection of the God who welcomes sinners to himself by giving himself to them. Such is what’s evoked at that great supper. That we have a God who welcomes sinners to feast on himself because he took their sins as his own! (2 Cor. 5:21)

Leaving leisure behind.

It’s easy to see the parallels between Laodicea and the modern-day church. This, I believe, is a letter that’s tailor made for 21st century Christianity. How often are we guilty of being “lukewarm” with our faith? How easy is it to become “comfy cozy Sunday” Christians? This is who he’s addressing, those who sit in a sanctuary on Sundays but have no affiliation or affinity for the things of the gospel Monday through Saturday. It’s not that the Laodiceans weren’t true believers, it’s that they had become independent and indifferent. The luxuries they enjoyed had made them lackadaisical in their spiritual walk.

To such, the invitation to come and dine is given. To sinners, the spiritual welcome is issued to come and find rest, find peace, find hope, find life at Jesus’s feet. As he is God’s “Amen” (2 Cor. 1:20), so is Christ the divine welcome for every sinner to find a haven, to find a home in him alone.

]]>Feasting On & Investing in Jesus: The Gospel’s Disruption of LeisureOn Satan, Spiritual Conflict, & Its Pastoral ObligationEssaysBrad GrayFri, 08 Feb 2019 12:01:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/satan-spiritual-conflict5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5c52ef5f032be4448ff447dcFundamental to the gospel itself is an understanding of its inexorable
testament to a literal devil figure, whose might and minions are at once
thwarted in their mission to subvert God’s reclamation of creation by the
Son of God’s triumph over death. Evidence throughout the Gospels affirm the
real activity and tangible presence of Satan and demons, with Jesus
trouncing their operation at every turn.The Gospel of Mark is, perhaps, the most urgent of the Gospels in its literary form and structure. It gives a fervent, almost raw depiction of Jesus’s life and ministry, presenting powerful scene after powerful scene of his authority, mercy, and sovereignty. In the latter half of the opening chapter, we are shown Jesus’s penchant for doing the unexpected, as he almost invites the hostility of the religious aristocrats by performing various exorcisms and healings. (Mark 1:21–45) While some choose to spend time focusing on Christ’s affinity for speaking life and grace into unclean and undesirable people — and rightly so — perhaps a less noticeable aspect of Jesus’s healings is his outright assault on the works of darkness by taking an aggressive stance against Satan and his cronies through such miracles.

Fundamental to the gospel itself is an understanding of its inexorable testament to a literal devil figure, whose might and minions are at once thwarted in their mission to subvert God’s reclamation of creation by the Son of God’s triumph over death. Evidence throughout the Gospels affirm the real activity and tangible presence of Satan and demons, with Jesus trouncing their operation at every turn. The devil shows up early on in each of the Synoptic Gospels in the account of Jesus’s temptation in the wilderness. (Mark 1:13; cf. Matt. 4:1; Luke 4:2) This scene, though rife with theological undertones, acts as one of the key Christological averments to Satan himself. The Synoptics are also filled thematically with the tension between the two kingdoms, God’s and Satan’s, as is evidenced by Jesus’s own remarks when accused by the scribes of exorcizing demonic spirits in the devil’s name.

“The scribes who had come down from Jerusalem said, ‘He is possessed by Beelzebul,’ and, ‘He drives out demons by the ruler of the demons.’ So he summoned them and spoke to them in parables: ‘How can Satan drive out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand. And if Satan opposes himself and is divided, he cannot stand but is finished. But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his possessions unless he first ties up the strong man. Then he can plunder his house.” (Mark 3:22–27)

Jesus’s rebuttal to the question of his authority in the purging of spirits is not only a (not so) subtle testimony to his own deity but also to the reality of the devil and the demons that carry out his malevolence. Mark’s Gospel portrays well the motif of darkness as representative of demonic influences and occurrences. Indeed, the bulk of the first half of Mark’s account is made up of exorcism stories and healing accounts, the first appearing in Mark 1:29–31 in the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law, and the last recorded healing coming in Mark 10:46–52 in the cleansing of Bartimaeus. Even still, it would be naïve to assume that the ministry of healings only appeared in Jesus’s early days on earth. Christ and Satan are at war throughout the Gospels, and Jesus’s engagement with the evil one is a telling nod to the manner in which Jesus would establish his Father’s kingdom.

Early Jewish society was inundated with the notion that death was intimately linked to the devil himself. Later this connection would come to include illness, as well. Therefore, the corollary ran that anything associated with death or touched by illness were obvious signs of the devil’s presence. Thus, when Jesus made it his mission to “proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free the oppressed” (Luke 4:18–19), he was not only rustling the feathers of the religious elite, he was upsetting the very fabric of Satan’s dominion. Christ, of course, knew precisely what he was doing whilst performing these supernatural deeds. He was not showboating or grandstanding, nor was he merely showcasing his mystical powers. Moreover, neither was he setting the template for his followers to go about conducting their own exorcisms. No, through these exorcisms, healings, and cleansings he was driving back the domain of darkness. Indeed, it in these very supernatural deeds that we see that “Satan’s kingdom is diminished, and God’s kingdom” expanded. (DJG, 195)

One is made to catch a glimpse of the siege of Satan’s kingdom in the Person of Christ in Jesus’s remedial powers over demonic blindness. The theme of darkness, which runs throughout Mark’s Gospel, is indicative of the movement and influence of Satan and his cohorts, but is also representative of “human ignorance and confusion regarding the person of Jesus.” (DJG, 199) One can see this most clearly in Jesus’s retort to Peter in Mark 8 after Peter has questioned the necessity of the Messiah’s death and resurrection: “Get behind me, Satan! You are not thinking about God’s concerns but human concerns.” (Mark 8:33) The diabolical blindness which hindered those in Jesus’s vicinity from understanding his true nature and purpose finds its culmination in Jesus’s passion.

“According to Mark, then, the blindness caused by the demons comes to an end as Jesus utters his final cry and looks to his deliverance from death, which is related to the breaking in of the kingdom of God.” (DJG, 200)

Jesus takes it upon himself, through much travail no doubt (Mark 14:36), to not only drive back this darkness but to defeat it once for all. In a paradoxical mold for a warrior, Jesus does not unsheathe a sword as he clashes with Satan on the cross. Rather, he uses the very evil most closely associated with the devil as his own weapon against the devil. In the death of Christ, death itself is weaponized again death, summoning the utter defeat of Satan and all his underlings. “Death, the engulfer, is himself engulfed,” writes prominent English minister Alexander Maclaren (251). “Death, the conqueror, is conquered utterly and forever.” The penultimate cleansing of Satan and sin, which also signals the final purge to come in the Last Days, is attended by the darkest of scenes, as the supposed Savior breathes his last on a ratty Roman cross. And it is in this darkness that the light of the resurrection shines forth in resplendent light to declare that death itself is defeated. It is no more. It is finished.

This, then, serves as ample ground on which pastors proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ to their congregants. Despite the darkness which still persists and spiritually blinds many to the hope of the gospel, pastors are imbued with an obligation to preach death and resurrection, which is, in and of itself, a message of categorical victory. Finished, indeed.

]]>On Satan, Spiritual Conflict, & Its Pastoral ObligationSola Fide & the Quest for the Historical JesusEssaysBrad GrayFri, 01 Feb 2019 12:01:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/sola-fide-historical-jesus5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5c4fe0a3758d46fce506f01cThe “quest for the historical Jesus” finds its beginnings as “an internal
Jewish controversy.” (DJG, 719) Early divisions over Jesus’s credibility
arose out of the derogation hurled at him by the religious aristocrats that
he was “possessed by Beelzebul.” (Mark 3:22–27)The “quest for the historical Jesus” finds its beginnings as “an internal Jewish controversy.” (DJG, 719) Early divisions over Jesus’s credibility arose out of the derogation hurled at him by the religious aristocrats that he was “possessed by Beelzebul.” (Mark 3:22–27) “The scribes who had come down from Jerusalem said, ‘He is possessed by Beelzebul,’ and, ‘He drives out demons by the ruler of the demons.’” (Mark 3:22) The claim that he was consumed by a Satanic entity completely eradicated Jesus’s other claims and charitable deeds, thereby expunging him from the acceptable roll of prophets that should be heeded and regarded. This dispute over Jesus’s “Jewishness” helped spark the endeavor to reclaim “the historicity” of Jesus himself.

Early church fathers and councils debated over Jesus’s two natures, his deity and humanity, and his authoritative testimony in miracles. From the Council of Nicea (in 325) to Calvin’s day (1509–1564) and onward, there existed unbridled dissension regarding Christ’s healings and exorcisms. The rise of scholastic skepticism only exacerbated the conflict, most notably in Scottish philosopher David Hume’s essay “Of Miracles,” which was published in his Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (1748). Throughout, Hume does not argue against the veracity of miracles themselves, rather, against their ability to establish credible foundations upon which to build systems of belief. “A miracle is a violation of the laws of nature,” Hume declares, concluding that “no human testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and make it a just foundation for any such system of religion.” (114, 127)

This conviction is largely a derivation of deism, the school of thought that accepts a divine Creator but categorically denies a divine Messiah. Jesus might have been a great orator and stirrer of the people, but he was no god. Such inclinations are fanciful and false. English philosopher Anthony Collins asserted that the Old Testament texts that prophesied of a divine Messiah “had been misapplied to Jesus.” Instead, they were merely “instances of rabbinic allegorical interpretation, demonstrating that Christianity was based on irrational fantasy.” (DJG, 723) German writer Gotthold Ephraïm Lessing would similarly claim that Jesus was among the the most distinguished lecturers in humanity’s history, being “the first reliable, practical teacher of the immortality of the soul” (DJG, 725) — but, again, no god. Rather, he was merely a defeated and disillusioned teacher, brutally dying in isolation after his followers deserted him.

Such assertions are what stirred Alsatian theologian and philosopher Albert Schweitzer to write The Quest of the Historical Jesus (1911), in which a recovery of Jesus’s “historicity” was earnestly sought after. Scouring the works of his contemporaries, Schweitzer posited that the colloquial outlook on Jesus himself changed within each era and with each author’s own bias. Therefore, to truly understand Jesus, one must interpret him within the context of Jesus’s own convictions. Thus, for Schweitzer, Jesus was a “desupernaturalized” and “demythologized” teacher whose reputation for miracles and messiahship was found solely in the “myth-making tendencies of religion.” In his mind, “the historical Jesus was turned into the mythical Messiah.” (DJG, 726)

The irony of Schweitzer’s “quest” is that in its very execution all biblical historicity is lost. Instead, liberal and critical scholasticism seems to have supplanted the scriptural data that evidences both Jesus’s historicity and deity. Schweitzer’s appetite for critical research seems to have “totally demolished the orthodox picture of Jesus” for him. He was no longer the “founder of the kingdom of God who died for the sin of the world”; instead, he was a disabused and disenchanted preacher whose own God had forsaken him and followers betrayed him. His eschatological dreams ended up crushing him.

This same pitiful irony persists to this day with academics falling into all manner of deep pools of criticism of Jesus’s life, with none of them being either very biblical or historical. Later in the 19th century, Jewish scholar Joseph Klausner would surmise that Jesus was “the most Jewish of the Jews,” while German theologian Walter Grundmann would posit that Jesus wasn’t Jewish at all, allowing for (tenuous, at best) theological underpinnings for the rise of Nazism in the 1930s and 40s. In 1985, Robert W. Funk and John Dominic Crossan would found the “Jesus Seminar,” a coalition of biblical scholars, critics, and lecturers whose outspoken quest was “for reliable, recoverable data as a basis for understanding Jesus as he really was.” (DJG, 739) While noble, the “Jesus Seminar” has deduced nothing wholly original or biblical, reasoning that Jesus was simply “a Mediterranean peasant philosopher, dedicated to . . . social-political liberation through subversive parables, aphorisms, and praxis.” (DJG, 739)

In the end, as in Schweitzer’s case, by engaging these radical deconstructionist notions, one is in jeopardy of losing the faith entirely. And so it is that as sola fide was the bedrock of the Protestant Reformation and the recovering of the gospel, sola fide remains the bedrock of the Christian life, especially as it pertains to interpreting and applying Jesus’s life and message. The Christian is endeared to return to the apostle Paul’s assumption when he states in his letter to the Romans that, “For I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, first to the Jew, and also to the Greek. For in it the righteousness of God is revealed from faith to faith, just as it is written: The righteous will live by faith.” (Rom. 1:16–17) A measure of faith is necessitated when endeavoring to grab hold of the “historical Jesus.” He is both Lord and Creator, capable of speaking worlds into existence and yet deferential enough to take on the ignobility of the cross. One might be inclined to remember the “trilemma” of Scottish preacher John Duncan — which was later brought into the limelight by British author and professor C. S. Lewis — that Christ was either a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord. In his Colloquia Peripatetica, Duncan writes (109):

“Christ either deceived mankind by conscious fraud, or he was himself deluded and self-deceived, or he was Divine. There is no getting out of this trilemma. It is inexorable.”

For the evangelical Christian, the pitfalls of radical biblical criticism are apparent. One must rely not on his astute research but on the Holy Spirit’s superintendence when endeavoring to produce a biblical hermeneutic of Jesus’s life and ministry. As Christ himself states, “The Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and remind you of everything I have told you.” (John 14:26) It is thus that any quest for the “historical Jesus” must proceed from faith in the gospel of Jesus, from which flows both the knowledge and the faith to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ himself as the one who was both Creator and Savior, God and man.

]]>Sola Fide & the Quest for the Historical JesusGod Loves Dark ComediesChroniclesBrad GrayTue, 29 Jan 2019 12:03:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/god-loves-dark-comedies5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5c2798768a922d1c5e8f30b2Comedy is, perhaps, the most subjective of the arts. Humorous entertainment
strikes some in the funny bone and whizzes over the heads of others,
leaving a large no-man’s-land where factions manifest as devotees to some
comedic form or another champion the cause of their realm of humor as being
the purest or most “hashtag lit.”Comedy is, perhaps, the most subjective of the arts. Humorous entertainment strikes some in the funny bone and whizzes over the heads of others, leaving a large no-man’s-land where factions manifest as devotees to some comedic form or another champion the cause of their realm of humor as being the purest or most “hashtag lit.” One comedic sub-genre that has never captivated me, though, is that of the “dark comedy,” the style that pokes fun and searches for smiles amidst oftentimes gritty, grisly, and gruesome circumstances. Some see this breed of comedy as particularly prescient considering the subject matter with which it seeks to make light. Be that as it may, I, for one, am not fond of this style and find it more than uncomfortable when stabbings or assaults or aspersions are made the punch line. Perhaps I just don’t get what the creator or artist is going for, other than just seeing the vulgarities they desperately want to record on film, instead of the thought-provoking message they’re trying to assert.

I’ve recently decided that God has a unique affinity for dark comedies. His sense of humor is sadistic at times. Perhaps you find that an unscrupulous statement bred in the waters of sacrilege. But I assure you, God is smiling in the storm. At least, that’s how I’ve looked up and seen him lately.

You see, 2018 was one of the most challenging years of my entire life, the last several weeks and months of which have been exceptionally exasperating and draining. It feels as though I’m living in a dark comedy. I don’t mean to write in clichés or to hyperbolically reinforce the point I’m trying to make. These days, though, have literally been some of the darkest in recent memory. It all started around Thanksgiving when we awoke to find that our 6-year-old German Shepherd had passed away in her sleep. The heartache of losing a pet, especially one that young, was difficult to accept at first, and still is. Then add to that the recent news that the ministerial role which I’ve held for the past year is about to receive some drastic changes involving a move from full-time to part-time (and lots more that I don’t have time for). The unsettling predicament of going back on the job-hunt to make ends meet was greeted with no small amount of stress as I not only began seminary classes but also prepared to welcome my son into the world in the coming year.

And as if that weren’t enough dour ingredients in an already bitter cocktail, my mom suffered a severe relapse in her cognitive wellness. Those close to me and my family perhaps will remember the affliction my mom endured this past June. A fierce emotional and mental health crisis ravaged my mom’s sensibilities, leaving her in a dense fog, a malaise of hope. In the last several weeks, my mom’s plight hasn’t alleviated, rather, it has exacerbated — making for a holiday of anxiety and a less than “merry” yuletide season.

Once again, I’m left to search. To hope. To doubt. To question. To trust. To pray.

Once again, I feel as though I’m all cried out. I have no more tears left to cry. My emotional reserves are on empty. Emotions have collided and have remained in conflict ad nauseum. I am spent.

It’s in these sorts of seasons in life where church compatriots are often tempted to acquiesce your grief with staid platitudes and pithy phrases. Among the many church axioms that I wish would die is, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” While the adage might sound good, I don’t know if it carries much in the way of truth. Actually, to be quite frank with you, I think that line of thinking is a rank pile of horse crap. It’s “Christianese” for “I don’t know how to talk to you about what you’re going through right now. Thanks. Bye.” And well-meaning though the words may be, they feel cold and meaningless for hearts that are in the midnight of the soul.

What’s more, I don’t think “God won’t give you more than you can handle” holds up theologically either. Notwithstanding the Pauline letter from which this pithy principle is derived (see 1 Cor. 10:13), the theological hoops one has to jump through to reach that truism not only nullifies the apostle’s point but also robs our Good Father of his glory. Our strength in the midst life’s crises does not come from the notion that I’m just strong enough to get through — that the catastrophe may push me to the brink but never over the edge. Sometimes life pushes us over the edge and into a pit. And it’s the free-fall, the time when God feels furthest away, that most reveals his nearness. Nineteenth century Scottish minister and hymn-writer Horatius Bonar put it this way (228):

“Sorrow should produce a very different result. It should not veil, it should unveil Christ. It should not throw you to a distance from him, or bring in some mountain of separation between you and him; it should increase your nearness; it should bring you nearer to him and him to you. It should make him to be felt as more precious, more desirable, more entirely suitable, more indispensable.”

In suffering, God unblinds our eyes to see that he’s been there all along. He’s never left. He’s never once thought about casting us off. He boasts in the moonless moments that reveal himself as the only true source of light and hope. God repeatedly gives us more than we can handle, that way we’re inclined to fall on him all the more.

This, to me, is God’s ghastly gospel, his darkly comedic tidings in which the dreadful and dire realities of life are permitted to exist and the delicacies to vanish. Sort of like that scene in Planes, Trains and Automobiles when Del and Neal’s rental car bursts into flames after an errant cigarette-butt throw lands it in the back seat. After all that they’ve endured up to this point — diverted plane landings, stolen taxis, swiped cash, missing rental cars, and the like — the bumbling duo can’t do anything but laugh at their predicament. The piling on of anguish was so tortuous it had become comedic. Frustration was too exhausting. There’s was nothing left to do other than smile.

I’ve always loved Planes, Trains and Automobiles. For some reason, it’s always felt like the only true “Thanksgiving movie,” even though the usual Thanksgiving tropes don’t get much screen time. It’s similar to the current argument that Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Nevertheless, Planes, Trains and Automobiles centers around Neal Page’s (Steve Martin) fervent quest to return home for the holidays. His journey is continuously stunted by perilous misfortune and the clumsy misadventure of Del Griffith (John Candy). I still get emotional, though, when Blue Room starts belting out “Every Time You Go Away” at the end. And even though the film does contain a few comedic gags, most the humor is found at the expense of the two leads. Their anguish stirs our laughter. It’s comedy in tragedy.

In 1962, in an interview with the Associated Press, acclaimed comic Bob Newhart quipped, “They say that comedy is tragedy plus time. After getting the bills I believe it.” Oftentimes, the tragedy of the moment doesn’t allow for laughter. It’s only after time has buffered the raw emotions from it that we’re able to smile. Other times, like in Neal and Del’s case, the misfortune of the moment leaves you with no remaining option other than to chuckle at the absurdity of it. Or, in my case, I just have to look up and say, “Really?”

It’s in these precise moments that God’s appalling mercy is made all the more evident. For all the insufferable atrocities of life “under the sun” are suffered and swallowed by him. He’s not unfamiliar with my catastrophe nor yours. Nor is he indifferent towards it. He has consumed all the world’s horrors, all of life’s tragedies, as he himself was consumed by death for us. In an essay that has become increasingly precious to me, entitled, “He Descended Into Horror,” Ian McCloud writes the following:

“God, in assuming humanity for himself, divests himself of imperviousness to horror. For in taking flesh he takes on the radical vulnerability to suffering and horror that is our inheritance from Adam. From the moment of his birth he gives himself utterly to the world’s disposal, adopting the limitations we resent and inhabiting our frailty. For the first time, the Son subjectively experiences futility and the grief of lifelong defeat at the hands of intractable, anti-human, anti-God powers. Becoming man means forsaking invulnerability and from his first breath he is inundated with the disappointment and dysfunction of the world . . . The body and soul of Jesus Christ became a black hole absorbing all the putrid stupidity of the world’s fallenness.”

After darkness, light. The shadow gives way to hope. In the midst of the storm, God is smiling. He is, at once, the Lord over and Deliverer from every disaster that strikes us on this mortal coil. And even as the mayhem of our lives whirls around us, a smirk that bespeaks his condescending lovingkindness appears on our Father’s face. He smiles not because he loves my suffering. Not because he’s divinely sadistic. But because even in this darkly comedic moment he knows he’s the lux aeterna, the ever-burning light of heaven through whom nothing occurs at random. As Christ calmed the raging waves (and the disciples’ hearts) with the simple cue, “Peace be still,” I believe he did so with a smirk. When God whispers, “Don’t be afraid,” he does so with smile. Almost as if to say, “Watch this.”

My one comfort in this solemn and sorrowful term remains the fact that this darkness and brokenness is precisely what the enfleshed Creator came to make right.
The Incarnation of God in Christ is the heavenly intervention and intrusion of the earthly, in which every wrong will be made right and all things will become new by God’s own efforts. (Isa. 9:7) What’s more, it’s not only the insipid brokenness that’s wreaking havoc in my mom’s mind that he came to correct, but the brokenness in my own heart, too, which reveals itself in interminable bouts of faith and faithlessness as I precariously navigate this season of life. Even though I’m faithless, he remains faithful. (2 Tim. 2:13) Even as I question God’s timing and abilities and decision-making, I think God smiles. He loves the comedy in the dark. Because he is the light. And the darkness won’t overcome him. For he has overcome the darkness. (John 1:4–5) He has overcome sin. Overcome the grave. Overcome death.

The dispiriting last several months have done nothing to unravel the uncertain days that lie ahead. I don’t know when this troubling time will end — or even if it ever will. Nevertheless, in my own faulty sort of way, I’m grasping for the Light that shines in the darkness. I’m clinging to the gospel of post tenebras lux — after darkness, light.

That mantra is helping a little. Because even though it’s not funny, I’m learning to crack a smile.

References

]]>God Loves Dark ComediesSon of David & Lord of AllEssaysBrad GrayFri, 25 Jan 2019 12:09:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/son-david-lord-all5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5c47ccfc21c67c91562867f4The closing vignette in Matthew 22 contains one of the more interesting Old
Testament quotations spoken by Christ himself. (Matt. 22:41–46; cf. Mark
12:35–37; Luke 20:41–44) The Pharisees and Christ’s disciples are there
together as Jesus inquires of them, “What do you think about the Messiah?”The closing vignette in Matthew 22 contains one of the more interesting Old Testament quotations spoken by Christ himself. (Matt. 22:41–46; cf. Mark 12:35–37; Luke 20:41–44) The Pharisees and Christ’s disciples are there together as Jesus inquires of them, “What do you think about the Messiah? Whose son is he?” (Matt. 22:42) The reply is unanimous, “David’s.” Surely the Pharisees knew their Old Testament prophecy; they knew from whose line the Messiah would come. (Isa. 9:6–7) But Jesus presses his audience further by aggravating the inquiry:

“How is it then that David, inspired by the Spirit, calls hims ‘Lord’: ‘The Lord declared to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand until I put your enemies under your feet”’? If David calls him ‘Lord,’ how then can he be his son?” (Matt. 22:43–45; cf. Ps. 110:1–7)

Jesus’s logic is sound: How could the promised Messiah be rightfully designated the “son of David” when David himself writes that the Messiah is his (David’s) own Lord? (Ps. 110:1) Indeed, Jesus’s inquiry so stupefies his listeners that Matthew records that “from that day no one dared to question him anymore.” (Matt. 22:46)

A glance at the aforementioned royal song of David, Psalm 110, sheds a brilliant light on Jesus’s purpose for not only the inquiry itself but on his specific citation of Psalm 110:1 as well. As one of the most oft-cited Old Testament references throughout the New Testament, Psalm 110 would have been immediately recognizable to those in earshot as a Messianic Psalm. This remark by Jesus wasn’t articulated in such a way as to inspire doubt in his disciples regarding his Messiaship. Rather, his intent was to bring into sharp focus the truth that the Messiah is God incarnate. The promised Messiah would not only be a descendant in the Davidic line of kings. He would not have mere royal blood coursing through his veins. He would be divine.

Accordingly, this statement by Jesus is meant to reconfigure previously held notions about the Messiah. He is the “son of David,” yes, but he’s also “Lord of all.” He is the “Davidic Messiah who will triumph over all his enemies.” (DJG, 635) His sovereignty is unrivaled. His might is unparalleled. He props up his feet on the backs of his enemies (Ps. 110:1) in a graphic display of absolute victory over those who oppose him — indicative of the victory God will have over sin and darkness. The Messiah, therefore, as the heaven-sent king, would come to bring everyone into submission to his righteous rule.

Jesus’s declaration, here, is a purposeful pronouncement of his deity and rightful place alongside the Father in heaven. He is more than David’s heir. He is more than a political trailblazer through whom Roman dominance would end. He is the Ruler of the entire created order. He is co-equal and co-eternal with the Father, seated at his right hand. (Rom. 8:34; Eph. 1:20) He is both Lord and Messiah, duly worshiped as Yahweh enfleshed.

And so it is that what Jesus is about to do — namely, substitute himself on the cross for sinners, subsuming the horrific suffering rightly deserved by us because of sin — is amplified to degrees beyond finite comprehension. Golgotha’s scene takes on new meaning. The blood that would be spilled there wouldn’t only be royal, it would be divine.

References

]]>Son of David & Lord of AllObedience That’s Already FinishedColumnsBrad GrayTue, 22 Jan 2019 12:01:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/obedience-already-finished5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5c44cec2bba22367201fbf9fThe rich young ruler’s inquiry to the Lord Jesus in Mark 10:17–22 (along
with Matt. 19:16–22; Luke 10:25–28) remains increasingly prescient for us
today. I would say that it’s most likely the hottest burning question on
everyone’s tongue, even if it’s not explicitly admitted; that question
being, “How do I secure a spot in heaven?”The rich young ruler’s inquiry to the Lord Jesus in Mark 10:17–22 (along with Matt. 19:16–22; Luke 10:25–28) remains increasingly prescient for us today. I would say that it’s the inquiry that’s apropos of the human condition; it’s the question on everyone’s tongue, even if it’s not explicitly admitted — that question being, “How do I secure a spot in heaven?” The young man in Mark’s Gospel asks, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10:17) This question appears multiple times throughout the Scriptures in various forms (John 12:25; Acts 13:48), and I’d hasten to say that many of you have asked the same thing, or something similar, numerous times throughout your life. (I know I did when I was younger.)

The question of eternity is a popular question to center a youth camp or conference around, the structure of which, unfortunately, gets mired in scary “fire and brimstone” sermons that serve no other purpose than to unnerve the audience to such a degree they feel the incessant need to “reassure” or “reaffirm” their faith. Perhaps those types of sermons have their place, I won’t deny that. But scaring your audience, even the listeners that are truly among the redeemed, into thinking they’re not saved seems inefficient. Isn’t the work of a minister bound to building up the body of Christ? As the apostle Paul writes in Ephesians, “And he himself gave some to be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, equipping the saints for the work of ministry, to build up the body of Christ, until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of God’s Son, growing into maturity with a stature measured by Christ’s fullness.” (Eph. 4:11–13‬)

In my mind, the work of building up the church doesn’t happen by weaponizing heaven as a means to scare some into “genuine belief” or “assurance of salvation.” Conversely, I think it happens when the promise of heaven as delineated in the gospel is made abundantly clear. Such is why I love the following passage from the late Episcopal minister Stephen Tyng. You want assurance of eternity? Put your faith in the obedience that’s already been finished.

“The man who has truly embraced the Gospel of the Lord Jesus, has cast out all dependence upon his own obedience; and rests his whole hope of justification before God, upon the perfect righteousness of his divinely appointed Saviour. He does not expect to earn a single hour of peace or glory by his own holiness of character. The obedience in which he trusts, and in which he envelopes himself by faith, was long since finished. He cannot add an iota of merit to that great offering, which has been once for all made for his soul, and which has perfected his title and his hope forever.” (143)

Heaven is for those who believe in an obedience that’s already been finished for them. For those who trust in a righteousness that’s given to them, scot free. This, I believe is what’s meant by the idea of “dying daily.” Faith in the finished gospel of God necessitates dying to faith in a meritorious obedience. It means dying to the notion that one more verse memorized, one more chapter read, one more minute in prayer, or one more Sunday service attended earns you one more iota, one more ounce of favor with God. We die daily to such notions by remembering the once for all completed work of salvation that’s offered in the proclamation of the gospel.

You want assurance of eternity? You want certainty of your spot in the afterlife? Put your faith in the obedience that’s already been finished. “This is the work of God — that you believe in the one he has sent.” (John 6:29)

References

]]>Obedience That’s Already FinishedJesus Is Not Ethan HuntMoviesBrad GrayTue, 08 Jan 2019 12:00:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/jesus-not-ethan-hunt5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be40e115ccc0f34e0ad4b51Last year I was able to see the sixth (!) installment in the Mission:
Impossible (“M:I”) franchise in theaters, Mission: Impossible – Fallout. I
caught it as it was on its way out of its theater run and I’m certainly
glad I was able to see it on the big screen.Last year I was able to see the sixth (!) installment in the Mission: Impossible (“M:I”) franchise in theaters, Mission: Impossible – Fallout. I caught it as it was on its way out of its theater run and I’m certainly glad I was able to see it on the big screen. I love the theater. There’s something about watching a good action movie in that setting that enhances the experience. You don’t just see the tenacity, you feel it — you’re brought into the events of the film as an impotent participant.

As the credits for Fallout began to roll and the titular M:I theme blared in the showroom speakers, I exited the theater and tried to reflect on what I just saw. Like any good Millennial and self-proclaimed amateur “film analyst,” I sought to place this latest film in the ranks of its constituents as well as in the annals of action movies of the past. I endeavored to determine its legacy through a careful assessment of its strengths and weaknesses.

On a strictly cinematic level, therefore, Fallout is a superb ride. The last act of the film is especially enthralling, with intercutting set pieces that equal the best moments in the franchise. As Alissa Wilkinson on Vox noted, it’s “worth the cost of an IMAX ticket for that scene alone.” It boasts not one but two intensely captivating vehicular chase sequences and audaciously places them back-to-back in the edit of the film — with each one on its own worthy of being the centerpiece of any other action flick. Fallout is a non-stop tour de force of action and espionage suffused with a bevy of emotional beats to act as counterbalance. I was pleased that they brought back Ethan Hunt’s wife (played excellently by Michelle Monaghan) as an integral part of the plot. Her inclusion always brings an affecting weight to a story that’d be more akin to Fast & Furious otherwise.

Fallout also boasts, perhaps, the best score in the franchise. Lorne Balfe, protégé of historically prevalent film composer Hans Zimmer, crafts a splendid soundtrack that perfectly blends Lalo Schifrin’s eponymous theme into new arrangements. It might not be as “fun” as Michael Giaachino’s efforts in M:I–3 or Ghost Protocol, but Balfe provides a masterful sound that enhances and intensifies the events on screen. And, furthermore, despite Fallout not being most humorous entry in the M:I family, and despite it taking more than a few minutes for the story to fully grip you, it’s still more than worthy of the M:I pedigree. Fallout is itself an incredible accomplishment for a sixth film in a series.

These moments of reflection, though, brought to mind two overarching thoughts.

The first is that J. J. Abrams is basically the “Jesus” of movie franchises. He’s the mastermind behind three major film franchise resurgences: Star Trek, Star Wars, and Mission: Impossible. In each case, he rescued them from relative levels of stagnation or deterioration. It’s actually quite remarkable these franchises come from the braintrust behind other polarizing shows like Alias and Lost. But for however much you’re still opining the denouement of the latter of those, it’s legitimate to conclude that if you want your film franchise reinvigorated, it’s a safe bet to put it in Abrams’ capable hands.

The second conclusion that struck me was that I’m really glad my God isn’t like Ethan Hunt.

It’s a staple of the M:I films to include literal last second resolutions to potential world-ending or at least world-altering scenarios. After Fallout, I was inspired to go back and re-watch every entry in the franchise, and whether it’s a virus or a nuclear missile or a “rabbit’s foot,” each dooms-day plot entails some serious luck and opportune timing in order to save the world and restore the status quo, down to the thousandth of a second.

Ethan’s team is exposed for this very reality in a scene writ large from Rogue Nation, where a U.S. Security Council chairman declares, “From where I sit, your unorthodox methods are indistinguishable from chance. And your results, perfect or not, look suspiciously like luck.” (That entire courtroom scene from M:I–5 feels very meta — like a knowing wink and nod by the filmmakers.) Considering the evidence, it’s hard not to agree with him. The “Impossible Mission Force” (IMF) has now saved humanity six times over with no small amount of last second luck. Last second foiling of global virus outbreaks. Last second file transfers and thefts. Last second nuclear warhead defusing. Last second escapes. Last second everything.

And that’s why I’m thankful that Jesus isn’t last second. To be sure, according to my plan and my timetable it might appear like he’s cutting things close. It might feel as though Jesus operates like Ethan Hunt, constantly waiting till the last possible second to extend a sliver of mercy. It might feel like he’s waiting till I’m at my wit’s end before showing even a granule of grace. But he’s not. God doesn’t operate according to my timetable. My schedule. My plan. My calendar. He’s not waiting for my opportune time or season in life to bring about his purposes. His ways are better and higher than mine. (Isa. 55:8–9) His ways are perfect. (Ps. 18:30) And so is his timing.

A phrase that I will, perhaps, never forget comes to mind. I first heard it in a sermon by Matt Chandler, in which he proclaimed that God doesn’t drive an ambulance. He never arrives late to an accident. The point being, God’s not just sovereign over time itself, he’s sovereign over timing. He’s never late. He’s always on time — his time, that is — and he’s never not in control. He’s never last second. He conducts the mission of grace as he sees fit. Much like Middle-earth’s curmudgeonly wizard, Gandalf the Grey, our God “is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.”

I’ve given that Tolkien-esque line (which doesn’t appear in his books but sounds very much like something he’d write) its due of theological reflection. I can’t help but think of when the apostle Paul writes to the Galatians, “When the time came to completion, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons.” (Gal. 4:4–5) “When the fullness of time” or “the right time” came about, then, and only then, did the Son of God become the incarnate Word of God. (John 1:1–3) But whose “right time”? God’s.

An intriguing study is looking at the promise of Genesis 3:15 and its immediate aftermath. Of course we know that Adam and Eve are banished from the Garden for their disobedience and are subjected to the penalty and curse of death at sin’s intrusion on creation. But God didn’t leave our representatives without ample hope that what they had just ruined would one day be remade. God assures them that a Seed of the woman would come and strike down the head of the serpent. (Gen. 3:14–15) This is what’s called the protoevangelium, the first gospel. On the very ground where our first parents failed, our Father assures them of his faithfulness to them. “On the very spot where sin had burst in upon the new-made world,” writes Horatius Bonar (276), “grace was to plant its standard, and at the very commencement of the conflict proclaim its certain victory.”

God the Father didn’t waste a moment to give Adam and Eve the first gospel sermon. But even they mistook God’s sense of timing. At the beginning of Genesis 4, we learn of Eve’s conception and birth of her son, Cain. We’re told she exclaims, “I have had a male child with the Lord’s help.” (Gen. 4:1) Literally, “I’ve given birth to a son of Jehovah.” Eve believed that God’s promise of deliverance through her offspring would come about immediately. Martin Luther makes this argument quite eloquently in his commentary on Genesis, noting how Eve erred not in the promise of the Seed, but in the person of the Seed. (Luther, 366–68) Where she thought Cain to be the one her Lord spoke of who would crush the serpent’s head, God had a different, a better plan, one that wouldn’t “come to completion” for millennia.

What’s more, think of the virgin Mary. A young Jewish girl soon to be betrothed when suddenly a heavenly messenger appears and announces to her that not only is she miraculously pregnant, but the miracle she’s carrying is none other than the “Son of the Most High,” the Christ. (Luke 1:26–38) The time had “come to completion.” God’s right time had arrived. But do you think this news fit in with Mary’s “right time”? I have my doubts. She’s a young woman, a virgin, who’s now forced to explain an unexpected pregnancy — on top of the fact that her explanation is nothing short of a “miraculous conception.” It’s been eons since the promise of the Seed, and yet here’s this unassuming teenage girl claiming she’s carrying the Messiah. It’s not hard to imagine the side-eyes she received and the daggers of gossip that spread about Mary and Joseph and their “mystery pregnancy.”

But even as Eve waited and waited and ultimately passed away eons before the promised Messiah would be incarnated, God’s purposes weren’t upset. And when Gabriel relayed the news to Mary that the “time had come,” God wasn’t coming in late to the scene. At each passing age, he was working and willing all to his sovereign ends, even as Eve’s daughters and granddaughters and great-great-great-great-granddaughters were confused about the timing and nature of the promise. Yes, even now, as we wait for the Lord’s return to earth amidst the rubble of international wars and societal skirmishes, God’s hand isn’t shortened that he cannot save. (Isa. 59:1) He’s not being exposed as our heavenly “Ethan Hunt,” waiting for the last second to bring about his method of salvation. He’s right on time.

“For while we were still helpless, at the right time , Christ died for the ungodly.” (Rom. 5:6)

]]>Jesus Is Not Ethan HuntBooks I Read in 2018ReviewsBrad GrayTue, 01 Jan 2019 12:00:39 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/books-read-20185be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da98c4997bae3a1651bbAs I did a couple of years ago, I thought I’d collect the books I read this
past year and provide a brief comment or two on each one. Each of these
volumes were practical and beneficial in their own way and I’d advocate for
their careful meditation as you have the opportunity.As I did a couple of years ago, I thought I’d collect the books I read this past year and provide a brief comment or two on each one. The list is maintained alphabetically (according to the author’s last name), as I am trying to refrain from “ranking” them as opposed to recommending them in general. Each of these volumes were practical and beneficial in their own way and I’d advocate for their careful meditation as you have the opportunity.

It isn’t all that groundbreaking to say that to understand the doctrine of justification is to understand the life of a Christian. Indeed, we might uphold the truth that a Christian’s life is best summed up in a divine sense of losing oneself in his justification. The fruits of sanctification are borne out of the deep roots of justification. To mistake this is to mistake the essence of the gospel. Such is why volumes like John Beart’s The Sinner’s Justifying Righteousness are so essential. In this little work, Beart takes you through the doctrines of both God’s eternal law and God’s eternal gospel, delineating how they work in harmony to bring about God’s purposes in redemption. “The gospel,” Beart writes, “[does not] come commanding and calling for a righteousness for justification, but revealing a righteousness already wrought out . . . it is not by ascending or descending, by fulfilling the law, and satisfying justice ourselves, but by believing in what another has done.” (122–23) This work, though not widely read or regarded, is splendid and would be well worth your careful perusal.

We all have expectations for God. Even if we don’t admit them verbally, each of us operations with specific standards we expect God to meet, ways we determine he will or should work. But, as is always the case, those expectations are dashed when the truth of the gospel is read and studied. The God of the gospel is a God who constantly works and wills in ways we’d never predict, with people we’d never presume he’d spend time with, in places we’d never hope to fine him. “He is a God who turns our every expectation insight out,” writes Chad Bird in his marvelous Your God Is Too Glorious. (18) I’ve become infatuated with Chad’s writing. The honest, sincere perspective on grace and forgiveness from which he writes is a constant refreshment to my soul. In Your God Is Too Glorious, Chad endeavors to explore the mysterious ways and places which are touched by the glorious Creator himself — ways and places which always surprise us. “The mystery of where God is found in our world,” Chad writes, “is that he’s not where he’s supposed to be.” (25) You would be incredibly uplifted if you made this book part of your library — part of your life.

I am extraordinarily grateful to be able to read the works of Horatius Bonar. He is the most-beloved theological writer I’ve studied, one whose pages I constantly frequent. I return to Bonar’s The Story of Grace quite often, and I imagine I will do the same with Man: His Religion and His World as well, the latter of which is a rather unconventional treatise in its presentation. It doesn’t contain a large, sweeping biblical narrative, but is actually an investigation into the contrasting and counterfeit truths that mankind purports as authentic and self-evident. Man operates on an unsustainable system of tit-for-tat, in which attempts to pay off God through his perceived goodness. “Man tries, by endless instalments,” writes Bonar, “to pay the eternal debt which has cast him into prison, and made him an alien from his Creator.” But, in contrast to that failing system, “God comes forth, and in one sum pays the infinite debt, and the prisoner goes free.” (50-51) Man, in trying to pay back God for the debt of sin he owes, actually robs God of the glory of his grace. And yet, despite this act of cosmic thievery and heavenly treason, “there is no case,” continues Bonar, “of any one on this side of hell too bad for cure, or too vile for pardon.” (37) This is the truth of the gospel — a truth which blasts all the counterfeits options of manmade conjuring into oblivion. Because Man: His Religion and His World deals with the heart of man, it remains a surprisingly relevant volume worthy of more present attention.

There are many reasons I adore the writings of Horatius Bonar, but chief among them the astute manner in which he expounds and explains the good news of Jesus Christ living, dying, and rising again for sinners. Such is what you’ll find in The Rent Veil, which is a masterful inquiry into the glories of the gospel as found in the epistle to the Hebrews. As the title suggests, Dr. Bonar is particularly intrigued with reflecting on the wonder of access to the Father as is made possible by the blood of the Son. This access is nothing but a miracle of grace. “We are saved by a dying Christ,” Bonar writes. By dying, he dooms death to death. “He conquers it by being conquered by it; he slays it by allowing himself to be slain by it. He crucifies it, kills it, buries it forever.” (10, 22) What a thought that the Son of God crucifies sin by being crucified himself! That he buries the curse by becoming a curse on behalf of those who are cursed! This, indeed, is the paradoxical glory of the gospel of the cross — a gospel that declares everything finished. “That which saves the sinner is done,” Bonar writes. “Another has done it all. Messiah has done it all; and our gospel is not a command to do, but simply to take what another has done.” (23) Despite being a shorter work, The Rent Veil is nonetheless permeating with breathtaking views of Jesus’s gracious work on the cross.

“It was from the cross of Golgotha that the cradle of Bethlehem derived all its value and its virtue . . . It was the cross of Christ that rent the veil; overthrew the cold statutes of symbolic service; consecrated the new and living way into the holiest; supplanted the ritualistic with the real and the true; and substituted for lifeless performances the living worship of the living God.” (13)

Last summer, I tasked myself with navigating the uneasy theological waters of the book of Ecclesiastes with a company of teenagers in tow. At the outset, I honestly didn’t know what to expect by engaging a deep study of the book, but by the end of the series, I became adamant that Ecclesiastes is, perhaps, the most relevant biblical treatise in the canon. In it, we learn the categorical vanity of all things but the truth of God. Throughout all of the Preacher’s experiences and examinations of the wisdom “under the sun,” he can’t help but come to the conclusion that wasting one’s existence on earthly vices admits the beggarly nature of the soul without God. “Beggars we are,” writes Bridges, “with all the riches of the Indies, without him. He is the substitute for everything. Nothing can be a substitute for him.” (xii) This commentary by Bridges proved to be an invaluable resource in my study, directing and absorbing my thoughts in the gospel context of a book that has zero mention of the redemption. Yet, underneath all of the Preacher’s sentiments is a burgeoning tension between that which is and that which is to come. Bridges’ remarks serve to induce the reader into loosing his grip on the “dainties of the world.” “Whatever, therefore, else we may lose,” he writes, “let Christ be our heart’s treasure, and we are safe for eternity.” (58) This was an outstanding encounter with Ecclesiastes and aided my study in more ways than I can relay.

When Mockingbird Ministries announced the printing of before-then “lost” manuscripts of their patron saint, Robert Capon, I, for one, was ecstatic. Capon possesses a dexterity with the written word that few contemporaries can even approach. He was resolute in his elucidation of grace in the biblical narrative, and for that, I am grateful. In More Theology & Less Heavy Cream, you’ll find a very different side of Capon’s writing, one that’s full of more whimsy, satire, and recipes than, perhaps, you’re used to. This little work is a collection of essays from the mind of Capon as he writes from the perspective of he and his wife’s alter-egos, Pietro and Madeleine, throughout which they debate the merits of dinner party menus and, occasionally, the meaning of grace. The “dash of theology” that’s thrown into this volume makes it worth the read. For instance, this passage near the end of the work, in which he expounds on the vast differences between religion and the gospel, is one of the finest you’ll ever encounter.

“The Gospel is vastly, alarmingly, mind-numbingly simpler than the moralistic, judgment-loaded religion they’re selling . . . Religion always sells. You can get people to buy almost any version of salvation-by-toeing-the-line you want to dream up . . . The one thing you can never sell is grace. The human race would rather die than give houseroom to the outrage of free acceptance, while we are yet sinners. You can get people to buy acceptance after their sins are under control, or only when their disasters have been forestalled by proper behavior. But all the Gospel has to offer is acceptance now: in our sins and in our shipwrecks. And without condition. With no guilt left to be expiated and no good-deed lists asked for. You can always sell religion. But the Gospel of grace isn’t religion and therefore you can’t sell it for beans. Any gospel that sells is, by definition, not the Gospel.” (123, 126)

With More Theology & Less Heavy Cream, you’ll find playful insights into Capon’s kitchen balanced with just enough pops of theological banter to make for an intriguing and insightful read.

Of all Robert Capon’s writings, his treatment of the parables is undoubtedly his most popular. I am working my way through his comments on each of Jesus’s parables, having previously finished his Parables of Grace and now Parables of Judgment. (Next, Parables of the Kingdom.) In working his way through Christ’s parables of judgment, Capon treats each passage in a way you might not expect at first. And it’s precisely the unexpected manner in which grace is seen and found throughout the parables that make them so timelessly profitable for the Christian reader. As is the case in many of Capon’s writings, his insistence on free grace doesn’t give way. In fact, he doubles down on that exegesis with the following passage:

“Grace doesn’t sell; you can hardly even give it away, because it works only for losers and no one wants to stand in their line. The world of winners will buy case lots of moral advice, grosses of guilt-edge prohibitions, skids of self-improvement techniques, and whole truckloads of transcendental hot air. But it will not buy free forgiveness because that threatens to let the riffraff into the Supper of the Lamb.” (41)

I have been profoundly enriched by reading Capon’s handling of the Gospels, and by being constantly reminded that “it’s the dead who are Jesus’ dish, not the living; nothing is all he needs—and all he will accept—for the making of anything, old creation or new.” (Capon, Judgment, 72) This will be a work I return to often.

Zack Eswine has become, perhaps, my favorite current theological writer. I connect with his writing at a very deep level. I often feel as though he’s writing directly to me. And yet at the same time, I feel that he’s truly writing himself. He’s spilling his soul on every page, pouring out his heart for both the glory of his Savior and the good of the church. Such is what you’ll find in his splendid collection of reflections on “the gospel according to Ecclesiastes,” entitled, Rediscovering Eden. I relied heavily on this book throughout my own study of Ecclesiastes this summer as I endeavored to show a group of teenagers the uncanny and unexpected ways in which the gospel deals with life’s messes head-on. Ecclesiastes itself is a book in which the Preacher doesn’t stick to the conventional methods of delivering sermonettes, but rather, “addresses the exceptions to account for what is.” (9) That’s really what Ecclesiastes is about, a book that “determines to show us how to find our way, amid the broken sacred of the world.” (23) Throughout, Eswine continually refers to creation as “once-Eden,” an adept moniker that, I think, perfectly captures the essence of the now: a world that once was perfect and beautiful that is now fallen and corrupt, and that groans to be restored and remade. It is to this brokenness that Christians are uniquely called and uniquely gifted by the Spirit to enter and sit and preach the good news.

“Ecclesiastes seems like one of God’s ways to say to us, This world and your life are more broke than you now realize and what God created for us is more satisfying than we believe . . . God intends to reveal himself as the One Who Goes There. He intends to equip his people with a voice and language and method that has the capacity to do the same. ‘Getting prepared by God to find a language adequate for handling life as it is’: this is the calling set before us in Ecclesiastes.” (37, 39)

Eswine’s handling of Ecclesiastes is tremendous, investigating each uncomfortable statement of the Preacher in order to show that it is God himself who’s calling us “into this discomfort and wants us to see that God is there.” (26–27)

Without question, some of the most interesting and intriguing bits of the Gospel accounts are those in which Jesus teaches the crowds through parables. Oftentimes, Jesus’s illustrations leave many confused or concerned, with his powerful teaching of the gospel of the kingdom coming to them in unexpected and unseemly ways. Each parable acts almost like a heavenly thief, accosting the listener’s preconceived notions of religion and faith and speaking new life into their ears. As Chad Bird rightly says in the foreword:

“The parables upend all our notions of a God who plays by our rules . . . The only hero of the parables is the messianic madman who gives away the gold of forgiveness like it’s candy; who hides oceans of grace in a drop of faith; and who continually crowns the last, the least, the little, and the lifeless.” (xi–xii)

The parables of Christ have received their fair share of erroneous interpretations throughout the centuries, many insisting on putting us at the center of the narrative, therein turning them into moralistic stories that seek to us how to behave or get along better. But, as with the rest of Scripture, Jesus himself is the interpretive key by which we are to unlock the parables’ true meanings. Such is why I’m thankful for Daniel’s and Erick’s efforts in crafting Scandalous Stories: A Sort of Commentary on Parables. Though this work is light, it’s hard-hitting when it comes to demonstrating the capsized-logic of grace that runs rampant throughout all of Jesus’s heavenly stories. And that is its best quality. It doesn’t waste time with copious amounts of exposition. Dan and Erick cut to the quick of each story, revealing both how we’re naturally prone to read them and how they should be read. Scandalous Stories is a welcome edition to my library — you’d do well to add it to yours as well.

I don’t think it’s too much to say that one of the leading influences in my ministerial life the past several years has been the combined ministries of Christ Hold Fast and 1517. Both of the predominantly Lutheran parachurch organizations have made it their pristine endeavor to showcase God’s flawless grace for incredibly flawed people. Such is what you’ll find in The Sinner / Saint Devotional. This work, edited by Dan Price, is a collection of sixty devotionals exploring the remarkable gospel truths found in the Psalms. The psaltery, the Scripture’s hymnal, is, perhaps, the most visceral book on the Christian experience ever composed. The words of the psalmists are timeless encounters with some of the severest of human adversities. They display for us the indelible truth that the Christian faith is predisposed to give hope to the hopeless. Even when we fear what surrounds us, “it’s not antithetical to our faith when we admit our fears,” says Elyse Fitzpatrick. (97) Nearly all of the 150 psalms are the cries of God’s disciples enduring untold anguish. As is evident throughout, the struggles of the psalmists have no bearing on whether or not they’re truly redeemed. So writes Donavon Riley:

“The righteous person is not the one who never struggles, never falls into sin, and is applauded for his saintliness. A righteous person is righteous because he trusts only in what Jesus does, and therefore God declares him to be righteous for Christ’s sake.” (73)

Regardless of what comes our way in this life, because our righteous standing is wholly outside of us, our confidence is sure notwithstanding the winds and waves that crash and crush our hope. God’s peace “is a gift and not a product,” encourages Bruce Hillman, which is why “you can’t work your way into it,” and neither can you really lose it. (127) The peace of God is there for us forever in the person of Jesus Christ. And he has promised to never leave or forsake us.

I am so thankful for this devotional. It’s stuffed with gospel truth and continually points me to Christ. You’d do well to add this to your bookshelf.

Benjamin Breckinridge Warfield is still considered one of the leading theological minds of the 20th century. Many still reckon him to be the last great Princeton theologian. His contributions and influences on a number of crucial Christian doctrines and apologetic arguments are still being felt today. It was with a deep reverence, then, that I worked my way through Warfield’s The Saviour of the World. This little work is a collection of nine addresses centering on God’s plan of salvation of the lost, all of which attest to the truth that there’s no one outside of this divine plan. “A sinner may be too vile for any and every thing else,” says Warfield, “but he cannot be too vile for salvation.” (24) The gospel of God is precisely orchestrated for sinners, and sinners are all that there are. “There is none so lost,” he continues, “that he may not be found by him, and, being found by him, be also found in him.” (26) What’s more, God’s gospel of salvation is wholly complete.

“All has been done by him. His saving work neither needs nor admits of supplementary addition by any needy child of man, even to the extent of an iota. When we look to him we are raising grateful eyes, not to one who invites us to save ourselves; nor merely to one who has broken out a path, in which walking, we may attain to salvation; nor yet merely to one who offers us a salvation wrought out by him, on a condition; but to one who has saved us, — who is at once the beginning and the middle and the end of our salvation, the author and the finisher of our faith.” (237)

All throughout Warfield’s discourses, the Lord’s sovereign hand in the salvation of sinners is made abundantly evident. And his sovereignty continues to this day, this moment. “Christ our Saviour is on the throne,” Warfield comments. “The hands that were pierced with the nails of the cross wield the sceptre.” (186) Such is the lavish comfort of the gospel that’s afforded and attended to sinners. Praise be to the Savior of the lost.

Of the many authors I repeatedly visit and, likewise, eagerly anticipate future works, Jared C. Wilson has become one of the leading candidates. What’s more, after having met Jared at the inaugural “Normal Pastor Conference” in Orlando, Florida a few years ago, his writing has becoming even more engaging. He’s not a reclusive theologian pontificating on pedantic biblical matters — he’s an impassioned author whose mission is to write for pastors and disciples, for the good of the church, and for the glory of God. Jared has often referred to Gospel Deeps has his personal favorite of all the books he’s authored, which is quite a statement when you consider all the titles he’s had published. Gospel Deeps is a rich exploration of the multifaceted gospel of God. “The further into the gospel we go,” Jared writes, “the bigger it gets . . . The further into Christ’s work we press, the more of our vision and the more of our heart it fills.” (20) This is a sentiment which I’ve grown fond of over the years: the notion of discipleship as more of a cave dive and less of a mountain climb brings a heightened (deepened) and nuanced picture of what means to be a disciple.

“Every angle of the gospel we look at ends up showing us a different reflection of God’s glory . . . The gospel in fact is scaled to the very shape of God himself . . . To know God better is to know better that eternity won’t exhaust his knowability.” (60, 132)

The pursuit of the knowledge of God is one that grows deeper and deeper the longer we’re engaged in it. There’s no limit to the depths of Jesus’s gospel. It’s a glorious dive into his undiscovered fullness of grace and truth. So let’s go exploring.

It is interesting that the doctrine of the Holy Spirit is still visited with no small amount of hesitation and ambivalence. It seems there’s no equilibrium to be found between the poles of a Pentecostal spirit and a cessationist heart. Despite all the conversation and controversy over the Trinity in recents years, the Holy Spirit often remains overlooked and disregarded. That’s where books like Jared Wilson’s Supernatural Power for Everyday People step in and shine. Throughout the pages of Supernatural Power, Wilson endeavors to demonstrate the Holy Spirit’s incalculable influence on our everyday lies. “I am firmly convinced,” writes Jared, “that too many Christians spend most of their lives trying to carry out their everyday routines in their own strength.” (xv) I, too, am persuaded that like many other doctrines and truths of Scripture, we cherry-pick that which we like and ignore that which we don’t like. We’re very often selective disciples. We’re attuned to that which fits into our lives or which sounds good to our ears. But anything that’s uncomfortable or unsuitable to our current lifestyle is met with deaf ears. “If we don’t hear God,” Jared continues, “it is not because God is not speaking, but because we have gone deaf.” (59) I fear we have gone terribly deaf to the things of the Spirit of God, most likely because we’ve let our Bibles become caked with dust.

“We may struggle to hear his voice, but very often that is because the dust is so thick on our copies of his Word . . . If you want to know what God has done and is doing and is going to do, read the Bible. If you want to know how to live and how to love and how to survive and how to thrive, read the Bible. If you want to know what God thinks about you, read the Bible . . . Your time in the Bible is the primary means by which the Holy Spirit empower you to live your life.” (67, 71)

Jared’s words in Supernatural Power are incredibly prescient for the current Christian climate. They’re momentous words that direct us back to the pivotal ministry of God’s Spirit, the Spirit that embraces and empowers our everyday lives.

Well, that’s pretty much it. What do you think of my list? What books did you complete in 2018? And which ones are you planning on completing in 2019? I, for one, am looking to finish a few more non-theological works. Feel free to discuss below — I’d love to hear from you!

]]>Books I Read in 2018The Hope of a Heavenly BoyChroniclesBrad GrayTue, 25 Dec 2018 12:00:10 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/hope-heavenly-boy5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da97c4997bae3a1651a3The ensuing lines come from a poem entitled, “New Heaven, New War” by
Robert Southwell, a Jesuit priest, missionary, and poet in post-Reformation
England. It is my estimation that these are some of the most fervent,
worshipful lines that could be reflected upon this Christmas.The ensuing lines come from a poem entitled, “New Heaven, New War” by Robert Southwell (111–12), a Jesuit priest, missionary, and poet in post-Reformation England. It is my estimation that these are some of the most fervent, worshipful lines that could be reflected upon this Christmas. They exhibit for us an honest look at the Savior who came to this putrid world as a mere babe, a “heavenly boy,” in whom resided the hope of the nations. This babe in a manger that secular musicians sing of is none other than the Wonderful Counselor, the Mighty God, the Eternal Father, the Prince of Peace. (Isa. 9:6) He is both Jehovah and Emmanuel, the Savior who has come for you. He is both infant and infinite, lad and Lord. In him is contained all the promise of grace that would soon come from the blood that coursed through his veins. As you read about the baby boy in the manger, don’t forget that it was he was that carried your cross for you up the hill to Golgotha. This is God’s glad tidings of great joy. (Luke 2:10–14) This is the hope of a heavenly boy.

The same you saw in heavenly seat,
Is he that now sucks Mary’s teat;
Agonize your King a mortal wight,
His borrowed weed let’s not your sight;
Come, kiss the manger where he lies;
That is your bliss above the skies.

This little babe so few days old
Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;
All hell doth at his presence quake,
Though he himself for cold doth shake;
For in this weak unarmed wise
The gates of hell he will surprise.

With tears he fights and wins the field,
His naked breast stands for a shield;
His battering shot are babish cries,
His arrows looks of weeping eyes,
His martial ensigns cold and need,
And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed.

His camp is builded in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall,
The crib his trench, haystalks his stakes,
Of shepherds he his muster makes;
And thus, as sure his foe to wound,
The angels’ trumps alarum sound!

My soul with Christ join thou in fight;
Stick to the tents that he hath pight;
Within his crib is surest ward,
This little babe will be thy guard;
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
Then flit not from this heav’nly boy!

References

]]>The Hope of a Heavenly BoyThe Economics of the IncarnationColumnsBrad GrayMon, 17 Dec 2018 12:00:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/economics-christmas5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5bf8af884fa51a471a5eccfaI don’t like the axiom, “Remember the reason for season.” Christians like
to brandish this phrase on all manner of social media posts as they opine a
society that has seemingly forgotten what Christmas is all about. The
commercialization of Christmas has superseded the meaning of the season.I don’t like the axiom, “Remember the reason for season.” Christians like to brandish this phrase on all manner of social media as they opine about a society that has seemingly forgotten what Christmas is all about. The commercialization of Christmas has superseded the meaning of the season. But it’s not society’s job to get the season right — it’s the church’s. Instead of getting irate over a culture that fails to appreciate what Christmas means, perhaps it’s time to look in the mirror. Perhaps that’s what this season is all about: a time uniquely inspired to evoke the divine economics of a Savior born and swaddled for you. (Luke 2:8–12)

Santa Claus has become so ingrained in our psyches that we often croon along with Sinatra, Cole, Crosby, Martin, and the rest without always realizing what we’re singing. There’s nothing sinister about crooning or caroling by themselves. However, the mantras of many of those songs, if left to their own devices, craft a disquieting system of compensation and indemnification. It doesn't help that Santa’s most well-known characteristics bear some eerie similarities to the way our culture views the fundamentals of religion and God himself. He not only who knows when you’re sleeping and when you’re awake, he who knows your name, your wants, and your deeds — and exercises authority in assessing them in sacred justice. This jolly judge operates within a rigid system of right and wrong, wherein the good people get gifts and the bad people get coal. The law of this land declares “so be good for goodness sake” . . . or else.

But the reality of Santa Claus is even scarier when you realize that his gift-giving economics have become, for a large swath of society, the mutually-agreed-upon traits of the Judeo-Christian God. Ole Saint Nick has become our substitute divinity. The God of the Bible has become a figure bent on rewards and recompense — giving good gifts to the good kids and coal to the bad ones. In a world under that protocol, Santa-God coming to town is a deathly scary proposition.

The economics of Christmas, as currently commemorated, play right into the collective psyche’s notions of strength and success. Santa’s bureaucracy of virtue appeals to us because its core structure lies at the very heart of mankind’s driving philosophy: be good, get rewarded. Christmas, therefore, becomes our tacit declaration that we can, indeed, be “good enough.” We can be the saviors. The winners. The good ones. The ones who don’t mess up. The ones who stay on the nice list. The ones who won’t get coal in their stockings on Christmas morning. We set the bar high and claim we can meet it — or at least fudge the results to make it look like we do.

In this system, however, we’re afforded no peace, no rest. For my part, I pray we’re given the awareness and audacity to admit along with Zack Braff in his Wish I Was Here that we’ve set the bar a little too high.

“When I was, a kid my brother and I used to pretend we were heroes with swords. We were the only ones who could save the day. But perhaps we set the bar a little bit high. Maybe we were just regular people, the ones who get saved.”

We’re not the saviors. We’re the ones who get saved. We’re the ones left for dead in the ditch of our own fallibility and pride.

We get the economics of Christmas all wrong. Instead functioning as the springboard for personal righteousness, Christmas ought to stir us to our core and turn our attention to the stark, upside-down reality of Christ’s Incarnation. Because the good news is that One better than Santa has already come to town, and he was good for your sake. His name is Emmanuel, the Lord Jesus Christ, the One who “will save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:21).

“God walking on the earth,” says American astronaut James Irwin, “is more important than man walking on the moon.” It’s more significant that God left his footprints on earth, than us leaving ours on the moon. That’s what Christmas reminds me of: a God who was okay with dust between his toes and dirt under his fingernails. A God who found refuge in human flesh, dined with sinners, broke bread with vagrants, and died for the very people that cried for his crucifixion.

“In binding himself to humanity in the Incarnation,” says Mockingbird’s very own Ian, “the Son plunges into what is antithetical to God.” He descends into the eye of the storm of strife and sin that perpetually covers our ruined world. Jesus was born on the absolute bottom rung of a very lowly ladder — the ultimate condescension.

Perhaps treasuring the holidays — “remembering the reason for the season” — actually means remembering the depths to which God condescended when he appeared on this sordid sphere we call Earth. All the uncanny glory of the gospel is found in the business of the Incarnation. “The entire mystery of the economy of our salvation,” says St. Cyril of Alexandria, “consists in the self-emptying and abasement of the Son of God.” All its majesty is there, too. For it’s not just that the Christ child was born where beasts dwell, it’s that after he was born he was placed where beasts feed. Wafts of animal life filled the destitute birthing chamber, attacking the nostrils of the Messiah’s derelict family. The manger where Jesus was laid is, in fact, a signpost heralding the wideness of God’s mercy

In arriving as an unacclaimed, unnoticed baby, God made it incontrovertible those for whom he had come. Jesus’s Incarnation is a divine reminder that the God of all Creation and Glory condescended to the beasts of the field and for the very worst of sinners. The economy of grace isn’t bastioned by a throne but by a manger, the least likely type of structure to impart fear in its visitors. And so it was that the shepherds were unafraid to see if the angelic hosts’ “glad tidings” were, indeed, true. While they would’ve had reason to tremble if called to a throne, they had no reason to fear a feeding trough. Neither do we.

So, even though I’m not fond of “remember the reason for the season,” in a way — a lot of ways — we have neglected to commemorate what Christmas means. It’s not about Santa. It’s not about caroling. It’s not about the lights and the tinsel. It’s not about the gifts. Nice as these things may be, it’s not really even about family. It’s about the fact that God became flesh and dwelt among us. (John 1:14) The Son of God in a stall. The Messiah in a manger. Eternity in a feeding trough. The Creator became a creature to die and restore his creation. The infant Savior we nestle in mangers in our often unbiblical nativity scenes (the wise men weren’t there people!) is the same Lord that would one day be tortured and bruised and beaten for all the world’s sin. That’s what we’re commemorating: a God whose economy isn’t like ours. Because it’s an economy of grace.

]]>The Economics of the IncarnationAdvent AngstColumnsBrad GrayTue, 11 Dec 2018 12:00:00 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/advent-angst5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5bf4512f40ec9abcd842f10eFor many, Christmas is anything but the “most wonderful time of the year.”
Rather, it’s the most excruciatingly, painfully dark time of the year. It
reminds them of past “would’a-coulda’s” and “should’ve-been’s.” The gifts
received are nothing compared to the treasures lost.For many, Christmas is anything but the “most wonderful time of the year.” Rather, it’s the most excruciatingly, painfully dark time of the year. It reminds them of past “would’a-coulda’s” and “should’ve-been’s.” The gifts received are nothing compared to the treasures lost. Christmas, to some, represents a time of year that’s fraught with feelings of failure and loss and rejection and despair. There’s nothing holly and jolly here. Only the difficulties of a season full of palpable pain and pressure.

For whatever reason, though, it always seems as though Christians get a little more testy during the holidays. Perhaps it’s because they feel so acutely the muffled tension between the overt consumerism of the season with the truth of it all muddied in obscurity. Perhaps they’re inundated with the stresses of impressing family members seldom seen and living up to the socially acceptable standards of gift-giving. In any case, Christmas has become such a commercialized event that we hardly pay any mind to its true significance. Such is why we can justify getting offended at red coffee cups and invocations of “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” And though I hardly wish to broadcast curmudgeonly phrases such as “Put Christ back in Christmas” and “Remember the reason for season” — which have, themselves, become religious tropes that aren’t given the slightest credence — there’s something to be said of the angst we all feel during this season of Advent.

The disquietude that’s experienced, though, isn’t merely something that’s conjured up by societal norms and familial memories, it’s inbred in the season itself. The lights, the sounds, the songs, the decorations, the emotions, the traditions — all the trimmings that gild the holidays collide to forge a season that’s teeming with anticipation, and rightfully so. Advent is itself the anticipation of the Incarnation, which is the anticipation of the Crucifixion, which anticipates the Resurrection and ultimate Glorification of God’s only begotten Son. And in this anticipation, we’re most often greeted with messages and songs that appropriately reflect the glory and grandeur of the season.

The fact of Jesus’s arrival in our world is one that remains out of the reaches of human comprehension. The notion that God himself would become flesh, that deity would take on humanity, defies all mortal logic and surpasses the borders of our finite minds. And that’s the point. The anticipation that’s felt during advent is there to remind us that we don’t, nor can we ever, fully understand what God did through his Son becoming a human baby. It’s supposed to be something we marvel at, something that makes our jaws drop with wonder, something that we commemorate and celebrate. Such is why, as Advent comes upon us, that the church ought to relish the remarkable opportunity it has to shine a bright light on the glad tidings of God coming in search of us.

The Incarnation of God in Christ in the world is quite literally the embodiment of the Creator’s grace to his creatures, unsought, unseen, and unstoppable. The tension of Jesus’s descent into humanity ought to be felt and embraced. This is prime real estate for the Spirit of God to pierce our souls and stir us to remember the uncanny nature of his redemption of sinners. For it is in our depravity and darkness that the Messiah comes. He comes to us as we are in the pit of rebellion and vice, not ascending the mountains of virtue. He who once formed worlds and suspended stars and held infinity in his hands now appears as a small, insignificant infant. He willingly stepped into the muck and mire, the trouble and tragedy of a world we perverted, that he might perfect it in his grace.

“God in his crooked wisdom has not taken the disasters out of life, he has become our Life in the midst of the disasters.” (Capon, 152)

The remarkable reality of the Incarnation is that its chock full of grace. In this event, that which we anticipate through Advent and celebrate on Christmas Day, is nothing less than God meeting us. This is what advent’s all about: God in Christ coming in search of sinners. He doesn’t beckon us to come to him on the wings of religion. Rather, he invades our irreligion and embraces us with mercy. He doesn’t call for us to shirk our sinful hearts of our own accord. He meets us right where we are, in the midst of our ruined and reckless lives.

“Grace does not stand upon the distant mountain-top and call on the sinner to climb up the steep heights, that he may obtain its treasures; it comes down into the valley in quest of him, — nay, it stretches down its hand into the very lowest depths of the horrible pit, to pluck him thence out of the miry clay. It does not offer to pay the ninety-and-nine talents, if he will pay the remaining one; it provides payment for the whole, whatever the sum may be. It does not offer to complete the work, if he will only begin it by doing what he can. It takes the whole work in hand, from first to last, presupposing his total helplessness. It does not bargain with the sinner, that if he will throw off a few sins, and put forth some efforts after better things, it will step in and relieve him of the rest by forgiving and cleansing him. It comes up to him at once, with nothing short of complete forgiveness as the starting-point of all his efforts to be holy . . . It is absolutely and unconditionally free; it comes up to us where we stand; it finds us ‘in a desert land, and in a waste, howling wilderness.’ And there it does its work with us.” (Bonar, 62–63, 65)

Unfortunately, we very often leave our recollections of Advent in December. We white-knuckle our passion for the yuletide season during the holidays and then let our commemorations go by the wayside once the 26th day of the 12th month dawns. We go back to our performance-driven worlds, seemingly no different. But that’s what the angst of Advent is all about. It’s there to remind us that that’s the point. Jesus’s becoming flesh should make us both uneasy and unburdened, for the one who made the world has come to set the world free. To bear their sins. And die their death.

The glory of Christ’s coming isn’t relegated to a month on a calendar. It doesn’t belong to the days of December but to the children of God, to keep and to ponder long after the world defiles and forgets its true significance. No passing of time on the calendar should ever cause your soul to devalue Jesus’s becoming flesh and dwelling among us. (John 1:14) Rather, along with Mary, we ought to “keep” and “treasure” the news of the Incarnation (Luke 2:19), remembering why he came in the first place — to seek and save the lost. (Luke 1:46–47, 77–79; 2:11) This year, let the spirit of Advent spill over into the days and weeks and months that follow. Let the Incarnation be your message and mission. Let Immanuel be the primary introduction, body, and application of every sermon. Let the Angst of advent give way to the sweet relief of grace.

References

]]>Advent AngstGrace Falls on the GrenadeColumnsBrad GrayTue, 04 Dec 2018 12:00:27 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/grace-falls-grenade5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da96c4997bae3a165183On a summer day in 2008, Thomas and Romayne McGinnis were presented with
the highest honor that can be received in any branch of the United States
military, that is, the Medal of Honor. The McGinnis’ accepted the award on
behalf of their deceased son, Private First Class Ross McGinnis.On a summer day in 2008, Thomas and Romayne McGinnis were presented with the highest honor that can be received in any branch of the United States military, that is, the Medal of Honor. The McGinnis’ accepted the award on behalf of their deceased son, Private First Class Ross McGinnis, who was being posthumously honored for his incredible act of courage and valor and bravery in the line of duty. An act which ended up claiming Private McGinnis’ life.

While patrolling the streets of a Baghdad neighborhood in the winter of 2006, a hostile grenade was thrown into the gunner’s hatch of the military Humvee which was occupied by Private McGinnis and four fellow soldiers. Despite being afforded enough time to identify the grenade and save his own life by exiting the vehicle, Private McGinnis, instead, fell onto the grenade and absorbed the full impact of the explosive. He was killed instantly at only 19 years old. The lives of his fellow soldiers, however, were saved. Their lives were spared because of Private McGinnis’ extraordinary sacrifice.

After reading accounts like this, I’m left dumbfounded at the intrepid heroism on display. I’m no soldier. I don’t pretend to know or understand the incredible amount of hardship and sacrifice it takes to serve your country at the expense of your own life. But, something in me wants to believe that, if put in the same situation, I’d do the same thing. I’d like to think that I’d react out of self-sacrifice and love and courage and bravery, too. I’d like to think that I’d take a bullet, that I’d fall on the grenade for those I love.

But what if we changed the scenario. Let’s suppose that instead of the military, Ross McGinnis was a federal prison guard. And instead of an enemy grenade falling into a Humvee full of Army brothers, the grenade was thrown into a van full of convicted felons — murderers, drug dealers, rapists, the worst of the worst. Do you think there’d be any amount of hesitation before choosing between saving yourself or falling on the grenade? Do you think there’d be a second or third or fifteenth thought about losing your life for the sake of those who had taken and ruined so many other lives?

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t think twice — I’d save myself. These guys deserve to die, I’d say as I justified my jump to safety. These are criminals! They’re not owed my love, my sacrifice, my life!

Presented with that scenario, we don’t make much room for grace. Only justice.

But what if I told you that there was someone who gave up his life for not just a van full of convicts, but an entire world of law-breakers? What if I told you there was Someone who fell on the grenade for you? Because Someone did, and his name was Jesus.

“For while we were still helpless, at the right time, Christ died for the ungodly. For rarely will someone die for a just person — though for a good person perhaps someone might even dare to die. But God proves his own love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Rom. 5:6–8)

The apostle Paul’s words in Romans speak to our scenario in the prison transport van. He understands the heart of man, how self-concerned it is, how full of self-preservation. And so it is that he notes just how rare it is for a person to give up their life for even another “just person,” let alone dying on behalf of the unjust. Accordingly, this makes the news of the gospel all the more incomprehensible. For the gospel tells us that God himself didn’t die for good people, for heroic people, for righteous people, but for the helpless, for the ungodly, for sinners, for us.

This, to be sure, is the truest and greatest act of love ever known in the history of the world. “No one has greater love than this: to lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13) The Friend of sinners dies for his friends. The Savior gives up his life for his enemies. This is the untold, uncanny news of grace. Not that you’re loved because of something inside of you. Because of something you’ve done or accomplished. But that in spite of you, you’re loved anyway, by God himself.

The very One you ridiculed and scorned and derided is the One who bleeds for you. The very blood we drew from the Savior’s gaping side covers our sin and washes us in righteousness, in the righteousness of God. (2 Cor. 5:21; Rev. 7:14; Ps. 51:7; Isa. 1:18) God loves you because of something his Son, Jesus Christ, accomplished. He loves you not only when you didn’t deserve love, but when you deserved just the opposite of love. He loves us when we deserve wrath. He doesn’t wait for us to somehow become “good enough” before loving and saving us. “While we were still sinners,” he loves us. Enough to die for us. In our helpless, ungodly, sinful state, God substitutes himself for us. He assumes all our punishment onto himself. “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Jesus loves you to such a degree that he takes on your guilty sentence and bears your verdict of death in his own body. Christ himself declares for me, “I can take it. Brad deserves all the wrath and fury of hell because of his sin. But I’ll take it for him. I’ll die for him. I’ll suffer his punishment. I’ll fall on the grenade so that he can be saved!” When he died on that cross 2,000 years ago, Jesus was dying the death for your sin and mine. And his death is powerful enough to cover all your sin, to cover the sin of the whole world, past, present, and future! (John 3:16)

“Christ takes our persons and condition, and stands in our stead; we take his person and condition and stand in his stead. What the Lord beheld Christ to be, that he beholds his members to be; what he beholds them to be in themselves, that he beholds Christ himself to be.” (Crisp, 437)

And so it is that God proves his love for you not by loving you at your best but by dying for you at your worst. “God proves his own love for us” by unassailably showing love to sinners — “love to the lost, the guilty, the wanderer, the backslider, the rebel, — love without measure and without change, — love that is not regulated according to the worthiness of the object loved, or the amount of love expected in return, but love that embraces the unworthy.” (Bonar, #24)

This is a love you never have to doubt or question. It’s the inseparable, unstoppable love of God.

“Who can separate us from the love of Christ? Can affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? . . . No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Rom. 8:35–39)

This is the promise of God’s love. Of God himself. It’s a promise you never have to question or doubt. It’s the promise of a love that’ll never let you go. A love that’ll never give up on you. A love that’ll never quit on you. It’s the promise of the Bible. The message of the church. And the only hope in life.

Jesus died for his enemies. Jesus died for you. Grace fell on the grenade.

]]>Grace Falls on the GrenadeSeeking Comfort for the End of the WorldCommentariesBrad GrayTue, 27 Nov 2018 12:00:12 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/seeking-comfort-end-world5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da96c4997bae3a16516bI tend to get apprehensive whenever a speaker stands and tells me they’re
going to unravel the mystery of the Book of Revelation. I shift in my seat
and start to feel uneasy as they delve into the signification and symbolism
of all the illustrative passages of the Bible’s most perplexing book.I tend to get apprehensive whenever a speaker stands and tells me they’re going to unravel the mystery of the Book of Revelation. I shift in my seat and start to feel uneasy as they delve into the signification and symbolism of all the illustrative passages of the Bible’s most perplexing book. Generally, I’ve found that speakers like that are merely there to impress the congregants with their incredible displays of prediction and deduction that allow them to decipher the prophetic words of John’s last letter. As they take the audience through the apocalyptic bowels of Scripture, they seemingly bear a “torch of illumination” that lights the way and manner in which otherwise troublesome verses can be read and interpreted. But most of the time, I think speakers who engage in this type of sermon are woefully off-base, not only in their conjecture as to what the Book of Revelation means, but also, more importantly, why we have the Book of Revelation in the first place.

The apostle John, the writer of, perhaps, the most renowned Gospel account of Christ’s life, along with three additional exemplary letters, now pens the most noteworthy book to close the canon of Scripture. This disciple whom Jesus loved (John 13:23) has been exiled to the island of Patmos. Resting in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Asia Minor, this small rocky island in which he is imprisoned soon becomes a sanctuary. His cell is quickly turned into a cathedral, his place of exile into an altar, as the beloved disciple is made privy to vision after vision from the Lord Jesus depicting the events of the End of Days.

And, to our own detriment, we pounce on this notion of eschatological explanation having ears that need to be itched (2 Tim. 4:4), and having consciences that are interminably curious. We mischievously delve into the mysteries of the apocalyptic portions of the Bible, all while not really having any inclination as to why they’re there, but only to find some nugget of prophecy with which we can impress and impose upon other people. Books like Daniel, Ezekiel, Zechariah, and Revelation itself, among others, have seemingly given us glimpses behind the curtain of God’s sovereignty. The magnificent visions in each of these books reveal something to us regarding what is to come. And knowing the future is something from which we can never turn away.

This, to me, is what has lead to both the erroneous interpretation and entire disregard of the Book of Revelation. I must confess my own lack of attention to this great book. Consequently, Revelation is studied with no small amount of trepidation and confusion. I’ve found, at least with the church bodies I’ve been associated with in the past, that readers of Revelation are either incessantly dreadful or incredibly dogmatic about what they read. And yet for all their study (or lack thereof), I believe they’ve gravely missed the point of this book.

The Book of Revelation isn’t an instruction manual by which we can all become godly Nostradamuses. Nor is it a secret code that warrants a Sherlockian quest into the underbelly of Christian history in order to figure out its meaning and message. The purpose of the book isn’t discovered through copious Scriptural dot-connecting. Revelation is not primarily a book that predicts the future. The intent of the entire book is made plain for us in the first five words: “The revelation of Jesus Christ.” (Rev. 1:1) This is Jesus, the Son of God, unveiled in high contrast. This is a book that reveals to us Jesus Christ in all the fullness of his glory and might and power and majesty. And in that way, it is a book that should comfort us.

The calamitous conditions of the text.

John assures us of the comforts and benefits that follow a reading of this book when he writes, “Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of this prophecy, and blessed are those who hear the words of this prophecy and keep what is written in it, because the time is near.” (Rev. 1:3) What’s more, the entire grid through which we interpret this book would be altered if we returned again to recognize that it is a letter. Yes, though it is made up of predominantly prophetic and apocalyptic language, Revelation is a letter that was written for the express purpose of encouraging the churches of Asia Minor, specifically those Jesus himself mentions in verse 11. (Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea. The precise words to each church are found in Revelation 2–3.)

But, you might be wondering, what’s so comforting about reading about the apocalypse and all the catastrophic events that go along with the end times? I’ve caught myself wondering the same thing.

Well, to find that answer, we must turn to history to give ourselves a bit of context. It is generally believed that during John’s pastorate at Ephesus, he was abruptly sent to the isle of Patmos some time in A.D. 95 (Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, Eusebius, and Victorinus all account for this), he being exiled there by Roman emperor Domitian for his belief in and “testimony of Jesus.” (Rev. 1:9) Domitian is widely known as a viciously authoritative monarch. He exercised a strong grip on the Roman government, ushering in a cruel despotic reign that essentially marginalized the senate and gave the imperial family absolute sway over the kingdom. He viewed the royal family as gods, and ensured the citizens of Rome followed suit — he, of course, being the primary deity. Some allege that he even gave himself the title Dominus et Deus, “Lord and God.”

In this way, Domitian served as the heir apparent to Nero’s vindictive prejudice towards Christians, banishing any who testified the name of Jesus Christ. An entire generation of first century Christian believers, then, are born into a life of intense persecution because of their beliefs. And it is to these individuals that the apostle John now writes.

Though these words describe countless calamities that would shortly befall this world, the disciple whom Jesus loved longed for these troubled believers to know, despite all evidence to the contrary, that God is still enthroned in the heavens. Though the days might’ve grown dark and grim, God’s reign hadn’t ceased. His “glory and dominion” are “forever and ever.” (Rev. 1:6) It is, therefore, in this glorious unveiling of the complete view of Jesus Christ that we are made to find immense comfort.

The comfort of a Savior.

John opens his letter and wastes no time in reminding his readers who it is that’s behind these words. You can sense his urgency as he writes of the time that is “near” (Rev. 1:3), undoubtedly aware of the adverse tragedies befalling his fellow believers. And so it is that the apostle endeavors to fortify their faith by reminding them of the Author and Finisher of it. “To the seven churches in Asia. Grace and peace to you from the one who is, who was, and who is to come, and from the seven spirits before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn from the dead and the ruler of the kings of the earth . . . the Alpha and the Omega.” (Rev. 1:4–5, 8) As John aspires to present a transcendent view of Jesus Christ, he first presents him as the Alpha and Omega of our salvation.

“Then the one seated on the throne said, ‘Look, I am making everything new.’ He also said, ‘Write, because these words are faithful and true.’ Then he said to me, ‘It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I will freely give to the thirsty from the spring of the water of life.’” (Rev. 21:5–6)

The Author of our faith didn’t leave the end for us to determine. Jesus’s work of salvation isn’t partially done. As his bloodied and bruised form hung on the cross, he didn’t say, “There, now you do the rest.” He shouted, “It is finished!” Jesus didn’t go ninety-nine yards for your deliverance and leave the remaining one up to you — he went the whole way. Christ obeyed the full extent of the law on your behalf. (Phil. 2:5–8) He’s the beginning and ending of our salvation — he clears the way for it and takes it upon himself to finish its conditions. (Heb. 12:1–3) Therefore, if you think you’re a commensurate player in your salvation you’re categorically mistaken.

God’s recipe of salvation doesn’t require the least smidgen of your own ingredients. There’s no room in the salvation of your soul for your “righteous works.” Jesus pays our sin-debt with his own blood. “To him who loves us and has set us free from our sins by his blood.” (Rev. 1:5) For all the sins of your past, and all the sins you haven’t even committed yet, the Father’s wrath has already been satisfied, paid in full by the blood of his Son. No further payment is necessary for the securing of your salvation.

Therefore, we’re reminded of the scandalous comfort of God’s salvation: the sinner’s ransom was paid for by the King’s own blood! The very blood we drew from the Savior’s side covers our sin and washes us in righteousness, whiter than snow. (Rev. 7:14; Ps. 51:7; Isa. 1:18) “To him who loves us and has set us free from our sins by his blood, and made us a kingdom, priests to his God and Father — to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.” (Rev. 1:5–6)

The comfort of a Sovereign.

Furthermore, the King Christ who saves us is also sovereign over all life. “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, “the one who is, who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.” (Rev. 1:8) John’s use of the descriptor “Almighty” isn’t by accident or happenstance. It’s significant. It’s a Greek word that’s mostly unique to this letter. (cf. Rev. 4:8; 11:17; 15:3; 16:7; 16:14; 19:6; 19:15; 21:22; It’s used two other times in Jer. 31:35 and 2 Cor. 6:18.) It’s the word pantokratōr, and identifies the one who is the ruler of all, the one who holds sway over all things. As such, Jesus the Savior is unveiled as the supreme Sovereign over all life. The risen Lord is the ruling Lord over all the events history, and time itself. King Christ is still on his throne. “I know,” John seems to say, “because I’ve seen him!”

As the apostle begins to introduce the visions he was made wise to, he recounts hearing voice “like a trumpet” instructing him to record what he saw (Rev. 1:10–11). And as he turns to see who it is that’s giving him this instruction, he’s given a brilliant vision of the person behind the voice.

“Then I turned to see whose voice it was that spoke to me. When I turned I saw seven golden lampstands, and among the lampstands was one like the Son of Man, dressed in a robe and with a golden sash wrapped around his chest. The hair of his head was white as wool — white as snow — and his eyes like a fiery flame. His feet were like fine bronze as it is fired in a furnace, and his voice like the sound of cascading waters. He had seven stars in his right hand; a sharp double-edged sword came from his mouth, and his face was shining like the sun at full strength. When I saw him, I fell at his feet like a dead man.” (Rev. 1:12–17)

This magnificent vision reveals Jesus Christ as our High Priestly Judge. (Rev. 1:13) And though we could spend countless hours rummaging around parallel passages to determine all the symbolism that’s in this vision and description of the risen Lord, that’s not where the comfort of this passage comes from. It comes from a touch. After John sees this vision, we’re told that he’s so overwhelmed with the awe-inducing reverie that he fell at Jesus’s feet “like a dead man.” Jesus, then, stoops to the prostrate apostle and lays “his right hand on” him, and says, “Don’t be afraid.” (Rev. 1:17) Interestingly enough, this isn’t the first time that John himself has been touched after catching a glimpse of the glorified Savior King.

The catastrophic consolation of a touch.

In Matthew 17, Jesus tells Peter, James, and John to follow him “up on a high mountain,” what we commonly call the Mount of Transfiguration. (Matt. 17:1–8) It’s here that Christ gives his inner-circle-disciples a magnificent look at his transcendent glory and might. A pre-revelation unveiling of his majesty. He wasn’t just a carpenter from Galilee come to upset the religious order. He was the eminent Son of God come in the form of a servant to redeem sinners and reclaim his kingdom. “Suddenly a bright cloud covered them, and a voice from the cloud said: ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well-pleased. Listen to him!’ When the disciples heard this, they fell facedown and were terrified.” (Matt. 17:5–6) But John and companions aren’t without comfort. As they laid paralyzed by the awesome sight, “Jesus came up, touched them, and said, ‘Get up; don’t be afraid.’” (Matt. 17:7)

In both instances, Jesus touches John and invites him to be comforted and stilled by his sovereignty. Furthermore, it’s my estimation that all the pages of Revelation are knit together by this single touch. It’s a metaphor for the rest of the book. “Don’t be afraid,” Jesus says. “I am the First and the Last, and the Living One. I was dead, but look — I am alive forever and ever, and I hold the keys of death and Hades.” (Rev. 1:18) “Fear not! I got this!” this comforting touch seems to say to us. “Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is going to be alright.”

It is in that way that we’re made to experience the “grace and peace” of the End Times. Not by knowing what’s going to happen. Not by connecting all the dots and predicting the future. Not by understanding all the intricacies of all the apocalyptic events. But by knowing the One who’s ordained everything in its time and is sovereign over all the times, and by trusting that he’s determined everything before the foundation of the world. This prophetic book doesn’t exist to disclose a secret formula with which to decode the End of Days. Rather, it exists to give us brilliant images and vivid expressions by which we’re made to recognize Jesus’s comprehensive victory and ultimate control over all things. The same Jesus that was slain is the same Jesus that is sovereignly ruling and reigning over the universe. (Rev. 22:12–13) The future rests solely in his hands. Therefore, Revelation shouldn’t stoke our anxiety and cause us to be stressed. Conversely, it should fortify us in the encouragement to “be still and know” that God is God and we are not. (Ps. 46:10)

The comfort at world’s end comes from knowing King Christ, the Alpha and Omega of our times. It comes from being stilled by the mysterious, unveiled sovereignty of our Savior King. He forever holds sway and dominion over the cosmos. And he’ll never abdicate his throne.

]]>Seeking Comfort for the End of the WorldManeuvering Through Life’s Mixed MessagesCommentariesBrad GrayMon, 19 Nov 2018 12:00:48 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/lifes-mixed-messages5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da95c4997bae3a165152The world “East of Eden” preaches a multitude of messages, each of which
try to sway the soul of man into being governed by notions that are
directly opposed to the truths of Scripture. “Once-Eden’s” sermons are
always selling us something.The world “East of Eden” preaches a multitude of messages, each of which try to sway the soul of man into being governed by notions that are directly opposed to the truths of Scripture. “Once-Eden’s” sermons are always selling us something. But all its offerings are nonfulfilling, futile, and vain. They never accomplish what they promise to do. The end of all the world’s consumption is always weariness. While the world advertises amusements and diversions that guarantee gratification, it is soon found that these guarantees are hollow, leaving you empty and discontented.

The messages of the world mixed with the message of grace can often confuse us into settling for things less than the truth. As such, the Teacher of Ecclesiastes deals directly with some of life’s mixed messages in chapters 7 and 10, exposing our misguided assumptions about life “under the sun.”

A truth about lucre.

One of the pervading messages by which the world operates is, “Get rich or die trying.” “Once-Eden” urges us to continually pursue wealth and success in the hopes of finding soul-peace. The dollar has become the holy grail of our age, with a functional ideology that the bigger the bank account, the smaller life’s woes become. But, as was observed in the previous chapter, no measure of financial prosperity ever fills man’s belly. “All of a person’s labor is for his stomach, yet the appetite is never satisfied.” (Eccl. 6:7) Mankind’s “enough” is never enough.

Juxtaposed against the message of “Get rich or die trying” are the words of God, which declare, “I’m worth more than money.” The Teacher affirms this message in the first phrase, where he says, “A good name is better than fine perfume.” (Eccl. 7:1) “Fine perfume” or “precious ointment,” as it’s elsewhere translated, is at once a literal and figurative symbol for luxury and opulence. In a word: Personal integrity is better than all the assets you could ever obtain “under the sun.” “A good name is to be chosen over great wealth; favor is better than silver and gold.” (Prov. 22:1)

The philosophy of “once-Eden” goads us into trading our reputations for riches and lives of leisure. But God’s Word assures us that our testimony has more value than all the wealth of the world combined. Your life is worth more than what the world can offer.

A truth about death.

There’s an old illustration that’s brought to mind in the Teacher’s next exhortation as he begins to speak in oddly positive ways about death. (Eccl. 7:1–6) Many old preachers used to say that you’ll never see a hearse followed by a U-Haul. Notwithstanding the triteness of this illustration, the principle stands: You can’t take anything with you in the afterlife, let alone treasures and trinkets tendered “under the sun.” The Egyptian pharaohs are, of course, notorious for attempting this, filling massive crypts with all manner of material goods and assets, in the hopes that their luxurious habits would continue seamlessly in the next life. But for all their efforts, their trinkets decayed along with their bodies. For all the security and splendor it affords now, wealth offers no safeguard when death approaches. (Eccl. 7:12) And while all the abundance of silver in “once-Eden” does nothing to protect you from the impending judgment at the End of Days, the smallest measure of faith in divine grace guarantees you eternity. (Prov. 10:2)

It is for this reason that our Teacher writes, “It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, since that is the end of all mankind, and the living should take it to heart.” (Eccl. 7:2) He’s using the reality of death as a rebuke of how we spend our lives. He’s writing in candid language about exactly what dying can teach those who are alive.

To be sure, funerals are not more fun than parties, but they are more significant. (Eccl. 7:4) Death itself, then, operates as a divine teacher, schooling us away from the carless frivolity and festivity of the world, and showing us the supreme value of life itself. “Grief is better than laughter, for when a face is sad, a heart may be glad.” (Eccl. 7:3) What at first appears to be a severely myopic perspective on life — “The day of one’s death is better than the day of one’s birth” (Eccl. 7:1) — is actually a hopeful reminder of the resurrection. For the Christian, then, though our faces might grieve and mourn the loss of loved ones, our hearts can rejoice in the grief-eclipsing knowledge of the One who conquered death itself.

Where “once-Eden” seeks to suffocate this knowledge, the gospel preaches to us the assurance of life in death. “The advantage of knowledge is that wisdom preserves the life of its owner.” (Eccl. 7:12) It is not in the “house of feasting,” but in the “house of mourning” that we’re reminded of our paradoxical hope in Jesus Christ, who triumphed by trampling the grave. Who through death brought life to the world.

A truth about labor.

Another message with which we’re often encumbered is, “Get all you can, while you can, as fast as you can.” We live in a fast-paced world where everything’s instant. Instant coffee. Instant rice. Instant entertainment. Instant results. Instant gratification. There’s a “1-minute plan” for almost anything you can imagine. I’m reminded of comedian Brian Regan’s observation regarding our incessant need for instantaneous food when he humorously deciphers the instructions for microwaving Pop Tarts.

“How long does it take to toast a Pop Tart? A minute, if you want them dark? People don’t have that kind of time? Listen, if you need to zap-fry your Pop Tarts before you head out the door, you might want to loosen up your schedule.”

In any case, man’s hasty pursuit of wealth and success “under the sun” often leads him down some unsavory avenues. The Teacher specifically mentions a man who resorts to extortion and bribery to procure his profits, which do nothing but reveal his own foolishness and corrupt whatever wisdom he once possessed. (Eccl. 7:7; 10:3) Pride, the mother of all rebellion, stirs us all to revolt against God’s timetable. (Eccl. 7:9; Prov. 14:17) Man’s insipid self-regard inspires both the fabrication of his own ends and the forfeiture of God’s goodness on earth.

A truth about patience.

How contrary this is to God’s message to us, which is simply, “Consider and contemplate.” “Consider the work of God, for who can straighten out what he has made crooked? In the day of prosperity be joyful, but in the day of adversity, consider: God has made the one as well as the other, so that no one can discover anything that will come after him.” (Eccl. 7:13–14) In direct contrast with the rapidity of “once-Eden” is the deliberate pace of wisdom. The Teacher’s admonishment is for wise consideration of the “work of God.” “Consider God,” he says, “and contemplate his sovereignty.” This contemplation requires slowness, stillness, and silence. (Ps. 46:10) Therefore, don’t be overly hasty to fill your life with noise and rage.

Those who fail to give any thought to God’s involvement in our times are those who “rush to be angry,” and are constantly pining for “the former days.” (Eccl. 7:9–10) The wisdom of God, however, enables us to bear all of life’s griefs with patience. “The end of a matter is better than its beginning; a patient spirit is better than a proud spirit.” (Eccl. 7:8) We are limited. We don’t know what the future holds for us in the next minute, let alone the next month or the next year. (Eccl. 7:14; 10:14) And where fools are incited to outrage and revolution over the realization of their shear impotency over the times, the faithful are those who consider the works of God in all of life’s times.

Wisdom rightly understood is the knowledge and acceptance that God is God and we are not. He is limitless! His ways are infinitely better than our own. (Isa. 55:8) And, what’s more, his ways are always right. The times are in his hands, so there’s no sense in resisting them. The grace of wisdom is that which humbles us to relinquish our plans and accept the Lord’s. It’s what allows us to consider his handiwork in all of our times. Both the “day of prosperity” and the “day of adversity” come from his hand. (Eccl. 7:14; Lam. 3:38) It is the recognition of this truth that leads to true soul-peace in “once-Eden.” Calmness in the midst of all the chaos “under the sun” comes when we’re stilled and slowed by God’s sovereignty. (Eccl. 10:4) “The Divine Sovereignty — reverently acknowledged and applied,” writes Charles Bridges (138), “at once silences and satisfies.”

It is then that the whole course of our life will testify to the fact that there’s not one misplaced thread or any color wrongly set in the tapestry of our lives. We’ll stand in wonder at the infallibly intricate intertwining of God’s grace and glory.

A truth about life.

One of the final remarks the Teacher calls our attention to is the world’s belief that “you get what you pay for.” The unsung but widely regarded system of karma drives nearly every action and reaction of man in “once-Eden.” Be good. Do good things, and good things will happen to you. Pay it forward and it’ll all come back to you. Sacrifice everything and make your dreams come true. So we’re told, at least. Our Teacher, however, saw life much differently. He saw a world that was discombobulated — that was interminably unjust and unfair.

“In my futile life I have seen everything: someone righteous perishes in spite of his righteousness, and someone wicked lives long in spite of his evil . . . The fool is appointed to great heights, but the rich remain in lowly positions. I have seen slaves on horses, but princes walking on the ground like slaves. The one who digs a pit may fall into it, and the one who breaks through a wall may be bitten by a snake. The one who quarries stones may be hurt by them; the one who splits logs may be endangered by them.” (Eccl. 7:15; 10:6–9)

To put it briefly, one of the only guarantees in this life “under the sun” is its enslavement to perversion. You can always count on “once-Eden” to subvert karmic sensibilities. And that’s a good thing, actually, because God doesn’t operate according to karma either.

God’s message to us isn’t predicated on our levels of sacrifice or paying it forward. His scales have nothing to do with our notions of rank or position. Rather, his message to us is, “The last are first and the first are last.” (Matt. 20:16) No karma here, only grace.

That’s what our Teacher was after. Indeed, that’s what we’re all after. Some semblance of harmony. Of balance. Of equilibrium. And that’s what grace is. Life according grace is balance. (Eccl. 7:16–18)

A truth about perfection.

As the Teacher reflects on his quest for wisdom, he recognizes that its true conclusion will always lie “beyond” him. “I resolved, ‘I will be wise,’ but it was beyond me,” he confesses. “What exists is beyond reach and very deep. Who can discover it?” (Eccl. 7:23–24) He endeavored to find out what true wisdom was, to explore, examine, and explain all things “under the sun.” He applied all his reasoning to discovering what mattered and what it all meant, but all he found was the stupidity of wickedness and the madness of folly. (Eccl. 7:25) Such is the fallout for listening to the world’s mixed messages. Like a smooth talking seductress, they’ve ensnared and enslaved us. (Eccl. 7:26–28) Entertaining the notions propagated by the world’s pundits and philosophers only serves to pervert the mind and the soul to waste life itself on vain things “under the sun.” The consequence of which is unmingled and unending disappointment.

This isn’t what we were made for, though. We were made for God.

“Only see this: I have discovered that God made people upright, but they pursued many schemes.” (Eccl. 7:29)

In the beginning, man was perfect. True Eden. True life, without any vanity. All was in balance. But man “in the exercise of his own free will became the author of his own ruin.” (Bridges, 179) The first of his “many inventions” was discontent with the happiness given to him and a fervent desire to fabricate his own. Man has completely upturned creation as a result of his “many schemes.” Where before he was made upright, he has since distorted and destroyed himself on untold folly. Mankind’s foolish schemes to reclaim for himself the peace and balance of Eden — on his own terms — are a complete perversion of God’s intended order.

Grace is a return to order.

Grace restores and remakes us into who we ought to be.

Grace is the inbreaking of God on our exiled world to reclaim us, the exiles, and bring us back to Edenic glory and joy.

References

]]>Maneuvering Through Life’s Mixed MessagesImperfect & Unimpressive Churchgoers Are All That There AreCommentariesBrad GrayTue, 13 Nov 2018 12:00:53 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/imperfect-unimpressive-churchgoers5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be4da95c4997bae3a16514eThe Teacher’s observations regarding life “East of Eden” might lead some to
believe that there’s nothing worth living for. Might as well face the music
and end your life now before your eyes ingest more carnage and corruption.The Teacher’s observations regarding life “East of Eden” might lead some to believe that there’s nothing worth living for. Might as well face the music and end your life now before your eyes ingest more carnage and corruption. A facile reading of Ecclesiastes contributes to such an interpretation of the text, seemingly condoning a cynical view of the world in which nothing matters. (Eccl. 7:1) The assertions found in chapters 4 and 5, however, upset this understanding while also speaking in realistic terms about the vanities of life in “once-Eden.”

In Ecclesiastes 4:9–12, our Teacher outright affirms the significance of community, writing, “Two are better than one because they have a good reward for their efforts. For if either falls, his companion can lift him up; but pity the one who falls without another to lift him up.” (Eccl. 4:9–10) The point driven home here is that it’s better to have little with company than a lot with no one at all. (Eccl. 4:11–12) Those who are more interested in propping themselves up punt on the fellowship for which we were made. We are communal souls. All the ups and downs, distresses and delights of relationships here in “once-Eden” ought not to make us suppress the community and fellowship for which we were made. Rather, as he’s been observing, authentic relationships with those around us, our neighbors, is much of why we’re still here in this filthy, fractured world of “once-Eden.”

Accordingly, as is evident in Ecclesiastes 5:1–7, despite its blemishes (and there are many), we were made for church.

A truth about the “Genesis 3” church.

The church of God “under the sun” isn’t immune to the fallenness and brokenness that plagues our world. Simply going to church doesn’t make you invulnerable to the world’s griefs. For this reason, our Teacher warns, “Guard your steps when you go to the house of God.” (Eccl. 5:1) “Church under the sun warrants caution.” (Eswine, 147)

The unfortunate reality of the “Genesis 3” church is that it can be a hurtful place. It might surprise some to hear that confession from a pastor but that’s the God’s honest truth. I’ll go ahead and say it: sometimes the church sucks. What I’ve found to be true is that if you’re in the church long enough, you’ll get hurt by it. Churchfolk are often messy and mean people, with no small amount of judgment, gossip, and hypocrisy spilling from their lips. “Guard your steps,” then, so you don’t get entangled by the unsavory side of God’s bride.

This unsettling reality often engenders questions as to the purpose and legitimacy of church in our lives. What’s the point, many surmise, of involving and investing myself in another broken community? Reading the Teacher’s words might spark similar inquiries in your own mind. Why do I go to church in the first place? Is it to feel more spiritual? Is it because you’re coerced to by your parents? Or are you afraid of what your peers might think of you if you don’t?

Don’t get me wrong, I love the church, but even I have to stop and ask myself the same questions. But while these queries have some level of individual legitimacy, they more precisely reveal our false beliefs and misconceptions about what the church is “under the sun.”

Some approach the idea of church and are oddly surprised to find sinners there. But sinners are all that there are. As such, we recognize that foolishness and folly exists in every gathering and in every facet of “once-Eden,” yes, including churches. But even still, as the Teacher maintains, don’t take the house of God lightly. Don’t neglect this assembly of likeminded folk.

The inference being, that it’s better to belong to an imperfect church than to none at all.

A truth about attendance.

Our Teacher’s choice of words is significant, as he refers to churchgoing not as a matter of “if” but “when.” “Guard your steps when you go to the house of God” (Eccl. 5:1), as if suggesting that the church is the exception to the rule of vanity. In fact, we ought to get used to the camaraderie of “once-Eden” congregations as that’s one of the few carry overs in New Eden. The grace that we share in church gives us glimpses into eternity. As we commune with those who are hurting, with fellow broken citizens of “once-Eden,” we’re made to experience a taste of glory. Attending and being a part of a church community is what retools our vain activities into eternal arrangements.

The fallacies of church attendance arise, though, as we fail to realize what the church is for: a place for sinners to be shown their need of a Savior.

The community of church is undone when we think we attend that place and are, thereby, dazzling anyone, let alone God the Father. Coming to this congregation with hasty words and a language that strives to ensure that you have everything together disintegrates the occasion for a community gathering like the church in the first place. Coming to church to “impress” God and neighbor ruins what this fellowship is for. It’s not a sanctuary for put-together saints, but as Francis Spufford puts it, it’s the headquarters for the league of the guilty.

Come to church, then, unimpressively. Come knowing who you are. “Do not be hasty to speak, and do not be impulsive to make a speech before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few.” (Eccl. 5:2) The axiom found in verse 2 — “God is in heaven and you are on earth” — seems simplistic but it’s actually a profoundly constructed humbling statement that realigns our focus. God’s in the heavens and we’re on the earth. God is God and you are not. He is everything big and strong and infinite, existing outside of time. Man is everything weak and small and finite, enslaved to time. Therefore, it’s impossible for you to impress God with your religiosity.

A truth about activity.

The Teacher’s next remark regarding God’s house “under the sun” concerns what those in his house are doing. These verses serve as a continued censure to those who are working to impress God with their church activities.

“Do not be hasty to speak, and do not be impulsive to make a speech before God . . . When you make a vow to God, don’t delay fulfilling it, because he does not delight in fools. Fulfill what you vow. Better that you do not vow than that you vow and not fulfill it.” (Eccl. 5:2, 4–5)

The reminder, here, is to be careful what you vow to do in the house of God. It is a perilous enterprise to vow to do something and then not fulfill it. (Eccl. 5:6) I’m reminded of the days of summer camp and all the “decisions for Jesus” that are often made and left there. The surreal spiritual highs of camp life are soon strangled by the ebbs and flows everyday life. The same often goes for church and the resolutions made there, too. Our Teacher saw an increasing number of churchgoers vowing and promising things in the church without any actual interest in fulfilling them. As if there was some spiritual competition happening and the most “resolutions for God” wins. But you can’t “level-up” by doubling-down on the vows you make in church. Precisely because the church isn’t a club for competing saints. It’s a community for sinners — a refuge for those who know they’re bad to come and learn about the One who is good for them.

The religion of the gospel isn’t about impressing God with remarkable acts of service and devotion. It’s about humbly, obediently, and faithfully tending to our God-given lot and life.

Our attendance in the church of “once-Eden” must be accompanied by attentiveness and activity, both of which are borne out of a stilled soul. When the Teacher cautions to not delay in fulfilling what you vow in God’s house (Eccl. 5:4), he’s not urging for more rash decisions. Rather, he’s encouraging a determined and deliberate response to flow out of the good news in which we steep while in the church. Don’t let your conversations and commitments stay within the four walls of the auditorium. Don’t be hasty with what you promise to do in God’s house. Too much hasty religious talk produces nothing but good dreams and ideas without much good activity. (Eccl. 5:3, 6–7) “Fools possess a religion of the unstoppable mouth.” (Eswine, 152) Fools talk more about the idea of loving their neighbor without actually loving them.

A truth about awe.

The faithful activity of churchgoers is propagated by a right view of Creator and creature. It’s precipitated by a right awe God. (Eccl. 5:7; 12:13)

The church of God “under the sun” isn’t a futile institution. For as much grief that permeates its walls, God’s preacher tells us that his house isn’t defined by its vanity. It’s the place where we go to realign our hearts back to eternity. Church reminds us that God hasn’t left us stranded “under the sun.” Rather, through Christ, he chose to dwell with us, tabernacling with us in the midst of all our wreckage and rebellion. (John 1:14) Christ is the promise of God’s ongoing presence for the church in the world. “The house of God reminds us that God has not abandoned the raging world to a life without witness to himself.” (Eswine, 161)

In God’s sanctuary, our busy minds are quieted in the stillness and silence of Jesus’s passion and death.

In this place, the words of the gospel are spoken.

Here, we are dispossessed of our cancerous, competitive spirits. Here, the fetters of the flashy and the spectacular are loosed in the quiet consideration of God’s ordinary service. Here, we are shepherded to rest from all our labors after “more,” to find pasture in Jesus’s enoughness. (Matt. 11:28–30)

]]>Imperfect & Unimpressive Churchgoers Are All That There AreThe Phantom Menace of CovetousnessCommentariesBrad GrayTue, 06 Nov 2018 12:00:43 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/phantom-menace-covetousness5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be40e8b5ccc0f34e0ad5da4I like to refer to Ecclesiastes as the Scripture’s “earthy sermon,” both
because its message is matter-of-fact and down-to-earth, and because its
deliverer is unassuming and unorthodox. There’s no spiritual parlance
wasted in this text.I like to refer to Ecclesiastes as the Scripture’s “earthy sermon,” both because its message is matter-of-fact and down-to-earth, and because its deliverer is unassuming and unorthodox. There’s no spiritual parlance wasted in this text. All of it is gruff truth and gritty dialogue about the reality of “once-Eden.” What’s accomplished, though, through this earthy discourse, is the exposing of the soul’s agony after wholeness. This message speaks to all people, in all times, in all walks of life, giving voice to the universal clamoring of mankind to be filled and at peace. Yet, as is observed by our Teacher, nothing “under the sun” can quench this soul-thirst. And so long as earthy novelties are the means by which man seeks his fulfillment, he will always come up short.

What’s observed, therefore, in Ecclesiastes 4, 5, and 6 is, perhaps, some of the most relevant commentary in existence on the fallen personalities of human beings. From about the midpoint of chapter 4 through the end of chapter 6, our Teacher proceeds to survey the folly of wealth “under the sun.” He meticulously investigates the loneliness of success, the menace of mammon, and the crippling nature of bowing to the god of earthly gain.

What’s more, our Teacher’s analysis of a life spent on a pursuit of wealth doesn’t come from an unfamiliar lectern. He’s speaking clearly and concisely because he’s been there. “I saw,” he writes. (Eccl. 4:4, 7) “I lived this way and it didn’t work.” These are firsthand perspectives on the futility of living for earthly gain. He isn’t speaking presumptuously, but authentically. “The one who loves silver,” he says, “is never satisfied with silver, and whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with income. This too is futile.” (Eccl. 5:10) In these words, he articulates what each of our souls know to be true, even if it’s never admitted: that we are insatiably covetous.

Sin has infected the heart of man like an incurable disease. Its prognosis in the long-term is terminal. And its consequences in the present are insanely grim. As this infirmity eats away at our being, it leaves massive craters in its wake from all the avenues it leads us down in the hunt for something filling. What the Teacher admits, here, is that pursuers of wealth and success never realize that which they’re after. “The one who loves silver is never satisfied with silver.” (Eccl. 5:10) For all his striving, he never achieves satisfaction. Actually, just the opposite is true — he becomes increasingly disgusted with what he has. “Whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with income. This too is futile. When good things increase, the ones who consume them multiply; what, then, is the profit to the owner?” (Eccl. 5:10–11)

This reminds me of the familiar anecdote regarding American business tycoon John D. Rockefeller, founder of Standard Oil, who was once asked by a reporter, “How much money is enough money?” To which Rockefeller is said to have replied, “Just a little bit more.”

The man whose estimated net worth was upwards of $340 billion (in adjusted dollars) was seeking “just a bit more.” The oil magnate of the early 20th century, who is widely considered the wealthiest person in the modern era, wasn’t satisfied with what he had. His “enough” wasn’t enough. He wanted more. So rings the deafening cry of “once-Eden” souls: “More! More!”

The appetite for wealth is created and agitated by wealth. The more things you attain, the more apparent it becomes the things you don’t have. This is the dreadful irony of the “one who loves silver” — he is never satisfied with silver. His monetary thirst is never quenched. No amount of financial gain ever fills his belly. Greed is never gratified with the gain it gets. With each new dividend accounted for, his soul cries, “More!” His “enough” is never enough. And as he chases affluence and assets, his heart is eaten by moths and his joy is consumed by vultures. He obtains no profit from all his profits, “except to gaze at them with his eyes.” (Eccl. 5:11) He’s still hungry and thirsty for soul sustenance. “All of a person’s labor is for his stomach, yet the appetite is never satisfied.” (Eccl. 6:7) The peace and satisfaction longed for by the lover of wealth remains unreachable, out of the grasp of his greedy fingers.

The Teacher refers to this reality as man’s “wandering desire.” “Better what the eyes see than wandering desire. This too is futile and a pursuit of the wind.” (Eccl. 6:9) The soul-cravings of the “one who loves silver” are ever-moving and evading him, removing any possibility for rest in “once-Eden.” He can’t even sleep at night because he’s so consumed and concerned with his “abundance.” (Eccl. 5:12) That which we reckon brings rest and security actually heightens insecurities and intensifies anxieties. Whatever is promised by gain “under the sun” eludes us like a mirage in the desert. Indeed, every form of happiness “under the sun” is a figment of the imagination. “Strange delusion,” writes Charles Bridges (126, 130), “to suppose that more of this world would bring increase of happiness . . . No fruit of happiness can be found in this world’s vanity.”

The menacing phantom of covetousness wreaks untold havoc on all citizens of “once-Eden.” Mammon, the devil’s wraith, (Matt. 6:24) haunts this world, besetting us in all manner of “sickening tragedies.”

“There is a sickening tragedy I have seen under the sun: wealth kept by its owner to his harm.” (Eccl. 5:13)

“Here is a tragedy I have observed under the sun, and it weighs heavily on humanity: God gives a person riches, wealth, and honor so that he lacks nothing of all he desires for himself, but God does not allow him to enjoy them. Instead, a stranger will enjoy them. This is futile and a sickening tragedy.” (Eccl. 6:1–2)

Striving after success “under the sun” is a futile and fruitless endeavor. As soon as you procure what your soul campaigned for, you recognize another, better pursuit. Our Teacher saw this as the fundamental motivation behind all of man’s occupations after opulence. “I saw that all labor and all skillful work is due to one person’s jealousy of another. This too is futile and a pursuit of the wind.” (Eccl. 4:4) The “miserable task” of chasing success “under the sun” is driven by pride and fueled by envy. But the truth behind this labor is more than a little disheartening, because just like Rockefeller, your soul will always be envious for “just a little bit more.” “There is no end to all his struggles,” the Teacher says, “his eyes are still not content with riches . . . This too is futile and a miserable task.” (Eccl. 4:8)

For all its promised benefits and perceived conveniences, wealth and success offer no buffer when it comes to the End of Days. (Eccl. 5:13–17; 6:1–6) No measure of abundance or amount of success can safeguard your soul for the afterlife. In fact, the grievousness of gain under the sun is aggravated in the truth that it can’t come with you. The wealthy industrialist and the penniless waif approach death’s door in the same manner: “exactly as he comes, so he will go.” (Eccl. 5:16) “As he came from his mother’s womb, so he will go again, naked as he came; he will take nothing for his efforts that he can carry in his hands.” (Eccl. 5:15) Those who are thought to have everything leave “once-Eden” the same as those with nothing.

This the insanity of sin. It tells us to spend our lives, to waste our existence on dead-end pursuits that have long been found out and found wanting. It swindles the desire to chase after the same appetites that have failed over and over in times long gone. Humans of past, present, and future partake of the same vanity. Man’s been chasing the phantom menace of covetousness since his banishment to “once-Eden.” But still, we’ve been duped into thinking that the same methods “under the sun” will bring us everlasting peace and joy and happiness. History reveals a starkly different portrait, however, bringing to light man’s utter impotency and ineptitude at ever finding what he longs for on his own. (Eccl. 6:10–12)

That’s because earthly gain was never meant to bring you lasting joy. All things “under the sun” are fragile, finite, and flimsy.

They were never meant to fill you.

The triumph of grace interjects our tragedies and comes to us in this broken, barren wasteland, and allows us to find true happiness not by looking to something or someone or somewhere else but by contenting us with “what the eyes see,” with what’s in front of us. (Eccl. 5:18–20) Grace makes us okay with the little life and lot God’s granted us — because grace gives us God himself.

“Who do I have in heaven but you? And I desire nothing on earth but you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart, my portion forever.” (Ps. 73:25–26)

The gospel alone lays to waste our idols of jewels and jealousy by gifting us the portion of Jesus Christ. God’s word to us is rest from our labors after “more.” (Matt. 11:28–30) “Come to me,” Christ says, “and I will give you the rest of my ‘enoughness.’” All that man longs for is found in Christ alone. “The sweet savour of Christ is the only antidote to the wretchedness of man,” says A. H. Frost. (Quoted in Bridges, 125) “When we thus realize our rightful standing in heaven,” writes Bridges elsewhere, “we rise above the dying vanities of earth.” (Bridges, 128) Covetousness is slain and contentment is stoked to the degree that you’re satisfied in Jesus’s “enough.”

Only he can fill us. (Ps. 16:11) Only what Jesus has done, is doing, and will do can ever give you the satisfaction your soul craves. The gospel is the gift of God’s portion, which is himself — a portion which can never perish. It is the grand news that you no longer have to chase phantom happiness. Grace is restoring you to Edenic joy.

References

]]>The Phantom Menace of CovetousnessStumbling in the Dark & Standing in the LightCommentariesBrad GrayTue, 30 Oct 2018 11:00:15 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/stumbling-dark-standing-light5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be40e8a5ccc0f34e0ad5d9fI have terrible night vision. Well, to be honest, I have awful vision in
general. If you were to look through my eyes and see what I see — without
the aid of prescription lenses — you’d shudder at the blurriness of the
world around you.I have terrible night vision. Well, to be honest, I have awful vision in general. If you were to look through my eyes and see what I see — without the aid of prescription lenses — you’d shudder at the blurriness of the world around you. Without assistance, I too see men as trees walking. (Mark 8:24) But it’s even worse when all the lights are off. My eyes are terribly slow at adjusting to the dark, such that I can’t see my hand in front of my face.

It’s a remarkable fact in and of itself that God designed our eyes with the ability to adjust to the dark and still see, albeit dimly. That period, though, between turning the lights off and getting used to the dark is an eery and unsettling one. You can almost feel the shadow take over as the night sets in. But after a few minutes, your eyes have completely acclimated to the new lighting, and though it’s not perfect, you’re able to make out your surroundings, where otherwise you’d be left to stumble in the dark.

Getting used to the dark, though admittedly a biological wonder, is a terrible spiritual mantra. In fact, I allege that it’s this exact mindset that the apostle Paul was warning against in Ephesians 5, where he writes, “Don’t participate in the fruitless works of darkness, but instead expose them.” (Eph. 5:11) To a church inundated with worldly influences and surrounded by moral darkness, the reminder to differentiate themselves from the common disgrace of the day was paramount for their spiritual flourishing. Ephesus, you see, was a large commercial center and significant seaport in western Asia Minor. Accordingly, the folks who passed through Ephesus were coarse, unruly, and unregenerate. When Paul describes those things that should never be “heard of among” the saints, no doubt he’s describing those with whom the Ephesians were familiar and, perhaps, rubbed shoulders with. (Eph. 5:3–5)

It is with urgency and sincerity, then, that Paul addresses the Ephesian Christians and exhorts them to disassociate themselves from those embracing the darkness. The charge is not to alienate themselves or isolate themselves but to “not become their partners.” (Eph. 5:7) Instead, they ought to “live as children of light.” (Eph. 5:8) Consequently, it is this dichotomy of dark versus light that the apostle emphasizes in this passage to such a high degree that we must take notice of his declaration and what it means for us today.

The Fruits & Directives of the Spirit

As with other letters written by the apostle Paul, Ephesians follows a similar textual pattern, in that he begins this letter plunging headfirst into the reservoir of God’s gospel before wading in the waters of functional behavior. The first three chapters of Ephesians are very much “good news” chapters, speaking eloquently of the incomprehensible and unimaginable love of God that saves sinners. The love that rescues and redeems those who are dead in trespasses and sins, and raises them to new life in Christ. (Eph. 2:1, 4–5)

This is the crux of Paul’s entire ministry. Likewise, to be sure, it’s the crux of Scripture itself. The root of the gospel message is deliverance for the delinquent and depraved. It’s salvation for all manner of sordid sinners. Still, this root is not without its fruit. The gospel of God does not leave the sinner unchanged. As Paul delineates in the second half of Ephesians, it’s the grace of God alone that takes the dead person and infuses him with life to walk. And so it is that the Christian faith is not an ivory tower religious exercise. The theology we cling to as believers isn’t academic debate fodder for the scholars and theologians. Rather, it is truth that informs and inspires an entirely new way of living, all by the grace of God.

This new life is what Paul’s aiming at in Ephesians 5. Without leaving the bedrock of God’s one-way love, Paul begins to shift the conversation from talking about the Christian’s position to talking about his practice. That is to say, where Ephesians 1–3 speaks to our spiritual wealth in Christ, Ephesians 4–6 speaks to our spiritual walk with Christ. And though it’s all the Holy Spirit’s work, the first half of Ephesians is primarily concerned with his work in us, whereas the latter half discusses his work through us.

New Life of Imitation

It’s this through-work that Paul is speaking to as he begins chapter 5. His “therefore” is meant to call to mind all that’s been previously discussed in the letter, and allow that to be the foundation upon which this new conversation stands. (Eph. 5:1) His appeal to the church is to be “followers of God.” (Eph. 5:1 KJV) The word “followers” in the Greek, here, is better rendered “imitators.” This, I believe, is much clearer and nearer to the apostle’s original intent. It is the call of every Christian to imitate their beloved Father as “dearly loved children.” As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s a better picture of the Christian life than this.

Michael Jordan, arguably the best basketball player in the history of the NBA (don’t get me started on this), was infamous for sticking out his tongue during games. There are stills and clips galore that show Jordan brandishing his tongue on all manner of dribble-drives, dunks, and defensive stops. In a documentary called, Michael Jordan: Come Fly with Me, though, it’s revealed that Jordan acquired that habit from his dad. (I had this documentary on VHS as a kid and I wore it out!) As he watched his dad work on cars or work in the yard, he noticed his dad’s penchant for sticking out his tongue when fully concentrated or wholly determined with whatever task was at hand. Naturally, Jordan took to this habit and the rest is history.

Loving Copycats

In a similar way, we are called to look to and imitate our Heavenly Father. As children lovingly watch and copy their parents’ mannerisms, so ought we to copy our Father’s love, however imperfect that copy may be. “Be imitators of God . . . and walk in love,” Paul says. (Eph. 5:1–2) We aren’t slaves. We’re not following the Lord unwillingly, or out of a sense of dread at the harsh crack of his whip. Rather, we are children, following him as willing, loving imitators. Our imitation of him is impulsive and instinctive. It springs out of a deep knowledge of the gospel.

Spontaneous imitation of Christ happens the more we’re cognizant of his immoveable, unilateral love for us. And such is what all true holiness looks like. The righteousness of God isn’t a spurious things, it’s a spontaneous thing. It’s not something that God coerces out of us by way of force or threats. Rather, as Paul elsewhere declares, he’s compelled by “the love of Christ.”

“For the love of Christ compels us, since we have reached this conclusion: If one died for all, then all died. And he died for all so that those who live should no longer live for themselves, but for the one who died for them and was raised.” (2 Cor. 5:14–15)

Imitating God in a pursuit of holiness is rooted in the reality of God’s unyielding love for you. It’s what happens when you know you can’t be unloved by the God who is Love. Likewise, this call to “be imitators” is a constant, present, continual thing. We are always to be copying Christ in the manner in which we live, notwithstanding how flawed that copy is.

But how, then, are we to imitate God?

Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark

Perhaps the chief way we imitate God is by following him into the dark. Certainly, we are called to avoid partnering with and espousing those in the dark, but, at the same time, we are called to re-enter the dark. We are summoned to be followers and imitators of God in the world’s darkness by declaring and demonstrating to others the selfsame resurrecting love that we’ve been shown. Just as Christ entered our dark world of sin and despair, so are we called to enter the world of rebellion to showcase the peace, pardon, and absolution only found in Jesus.

“Be imitators of God . . . and walk in love, as Christ also loved us and gave himself for us.” (Eph. 5:1–2)

Our mission as “children of light” is to be the light in the darkness. We have a duty to re-enter the world from which we were pulled, to go once more into the fray and find those we can save. We’re not re-entering the darkness and relapsing into pre-redemption habits. Rather, we’re infiltrating the darkness and broadcasting God’s good news to other lost and dying souls. In this way, we function as firefighters or emergency responders, entering and re-entering a house that’s on fire. We charge headlong into the flames and call out for any survivors we might pull out. With similar urgency, we enter the darkness of this world, with hearts spilling over with grace, ready to come alongside any sin-sick straggler and show them the same grace by which we were saved.

Love and light: these ought to be the chief descriptors of those who know and follow Jesus. Our great commission is to make known the love of God in a dark and fallen world. To a world full of rejects, outcasts, and reprobates, we’re to imitate God in love, forgiveness, and kindness. (Eph. 4:32) That which we were shown is what we’re to showcase. (1 John 3:16, 18) Such is the reason why Paul is insistent about reminding this church of the gravity of the forgiveness they’ve been granted. Because the more often we recognize the greatness of our forgiveness, the more we’ll be inspired to forgive others. Nothing makes our Father smile as much as when his children copycat his love and forgiveness, however flawed that copy is.

“Walk in love, as Christ also loved us and gave himself for us, a sacrificial and fragrant offering to God.” (Eph. 5:2)

And, furthermore, we don’t have to be afraid of the dark because the Lord goes with us. God goes with you into the maw — into the mayhem of the world’s darkness. He is the Light you carry with you in the dark. (Ps. 119:105) He is the Light you reflect. The light that shines in us is nothing less than the Light of the World. (John 9:5; Matt. 5:14–16; Isa. 42:6) “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.” (Eph. 5:8)

Don’t Get Used to the Dark

Moreover, this solemn charge to enter the darkness is followed by an equally solemn command to never get used to the dark. “Have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness,” Paul warns. (Eph. 5:11 KJV) And so it is that the manner in which we mimic Jesus is by not letting our light get used to the dark. Don’t let your spiritual eyes acclimate to the world’s dimness.

There’s a helpful feature built into your phone that automatically adjusts the brightness of the display based on the ambient lighting of your surroundings. This sensor reads the level of light in your environment and either raises or lowers the brightness to best fit that situation. So, if you’re outside in the sun, it increases the brightness and, conversely, if you’re in a dark room, it lowers the brightness — seeing as there’s not as much need for the screen to be as intense. I fear, though, that Christians have a similar “spiritual light sensor” functioning in their souls. We see the darkness of the world around us and lower the brightness on our witness in order to live more comfortably. But such a notion is precisely why Paul writes, “Don’t participate in the fruitless works of darkness, but instead expose them.” (Eph. 5:11)

Yes, we’ve been called into the dark but never to get acclimated to it. As close as we’re appointed to get to the world, we’re never to be like the world. The filth of mankind, Paul writes, “should not even be heard of among you.” (Eph. 5:3) The grace of God that delivers us also makes us different. Where once we were in darkness, now we stand in the light of the Lord. (Eph. 5:8) The “fruitless works of darkness” no longer dominate or describe us anymore. We’ve been remade by grace as God’s lights. Therefore, we are to “live as children of light.”

Paul counters the idea of cozying up to the world and getting used to the dark by ardently prompting the Ephesians to live as beacons of God’s truth. They weren’t to contaminate themselves by returning, again, to the “uncleanness” of the world. They weren’t to participate in “obscene and foolish talking or crude joking.” (Eph. 5:4) The obscenities and immoralities so common in society should never be named among the saints. Rather, their entire conduct was to be such that exposes the darkness. (Eph. 5:11) We expose the darkness to point to the Light of the World.

You see, where the darkness of this world is defined by lust and self-indulgence, the Christian is to be described by love and self-sacrifice. Our society is addicted to pleasure and whatever makes them feel good. And the temptation is for the church to operate ever so slightly right of where the world is. But as the culture careens deeper and deeper into darkness and debauchery, we cannot toe the line. We must stand in the light! We must stand for the truth! As God is unmoved, so are we to be unmoved. No matter how dark the world gets, we’re called to walk and stand as children of light. (Eph. 5:15–16)

“Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.” (Eph. 6:13 KJV)

The call of the Christian is to never get used to the darkness but to be a light in the darkness. And, likewise, the more we throw ourselves into the gospel, and the more the Holy Spirit works in us his fruit (Eph. 5:9; Gal. 5:22–23), the brighter our light will be in the world. “You are the light of the world . . . let your light shine before men, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matt. 5:14–16) Don’t be afraid of the dark, Christian, and don’t get used to it either. Actually, it’s time to turn up the brightness.

]]>Stumbling in the Dark & Standing in the LightA Better Promise Than a Better YouChroniclesBrad GrayFri, 26 Oct 2018 11:00:01 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/better-promise-better-you5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be40e8b5ccc0f34e0ad5dbdThe fall season has finally come and you know what that means? Football is
back. Pumpkin spice is on everything. And Apple is doing keynotes. A few
weeks ago, Apple, Inc. CEO Tim Cook took the stage to show off the latest
generation of wearables and handhelds from the minimalistic tech company.The fall season has finally come and you know what that means? Football is back. Pumpkin spice is on everything. And Apple is doing keynotes.

A few weeks ago, Apple, Inc. CEO Tim Cook took the stage to show off the latest generation of wearables and handhelds from the minimalistic tech company. This year’s crop of devices featured slightly upgraded internals with vaguely different external designs. For as much of an Apple enthusiast as I am, in my estimation they’re in a bit of an “ingenuity rut.” They innovate slowly and, for years now, have stuck to a pattern of releasing a device in year A, only to release the same device in year B accompanied by a rebrand and a slight upgrade to the internal mechanics. The iPhone “S” has become a technological predictability at this point.

But what has stuck with me since the September Apple event and the subsequent weeks of marketing the new devices is Apple’s method of selling its watch. The new Apple Watch Series 4 is boosted by a larger display and faster components “to help you stay even more active, healthy, and connected.” It’s “all new. For a better you.” (Yes, those are actual lines from Apple’s page promoting the fourth generation Apple Watch.)

“There’s a better you in you.”

To be honest with you, I was tempted to just say, “This speaks for itself,” and call it a day. But the deceptively false gospel that’s made so apparent, here, is worth calling out. Because the gospel of God is so much better than the promise of a better you.

I’m struck by how this ad speaks to me and for me. There’s a sense in which I want this ad to be true. I want there to be a better me in me. I realize my faults, my shortcomings, my failures. I feel the weight of the societal law that makes me feel “less than” when I skip the gym for several days straight. I, too, see what the world tells me is the ideal all late-20s males should be striving for. I look in the mirror, see my “dad bod,” and am at once frustrated by my failure to live up to that standard.

But luckily for me, all I need is this watch and all those flaws will be fixed. Because this watch will make me stronger. It’ll get me out of bed and into a workout routine. A routine, mind you, that’ll lead me into more and more intense training that’ll help me become the version of myself I’ve always longed for. It’ll make me faster. It’ll make me more productive. More assertive. More creative. More energetic.

Finally, the technological silver bullet for all my deficiencies has arrived. Finally, my life’s missing piece has been “fundamentally redesigned and re-engineered” to be “part guardian, part guru,” guiding me into untold realms of actualized self-help and self-improvement, and motivating me to be a better me.

Because there’s a better me in me. I just have to unleash it.

At least, that’s what we’re told. That’s what we’re force-fed. And, no doubt, that’s what we honestly believe — or want to believe.

Such is why the message of Jesus of Nazareth was, and still is, met with no small amount of consternation. “For from within, out of people’s hearts,” Jesus declared, “come evil thoughts, sexual immoralities, thefts, murders, adulteries, greed, evil actions, deceit, self-indulgence, envy, slander, pride, and foolishness. All these evil things come from within and defile a person.” (Mark 7:21–23) Christ’s message to the crowd wasn’t that there’s a better version of themselves inside of them, and he’d come to set that version loose. Rather, there’s a worse version of themselves inside of them, and he came to die for that version of them.

So writes the beloved Robert Capon (62, 71):

“Salvation is not some felicitous state to which we can lift ourselves by our own bootstraps after the contemplation of sufficiently good examples. It is an utterly new creation into which we are brought by our death in Jesus’ death and our resurrection in his. It comes not out of our own efforts, however well-inspired or successfully pursued, but out of the shipwreck of all human effort whatsoever . . . Death and resurrection are the key to the whole mystery of our redemption.”

Jesus didn’t come propagating a message that made people better. He came proclaiming death and resurrection. His sermons were all about opening people’s eyes to their true misery and his marvelous mercy that meets them in their misery. That meets them where they are. In their wretchedness. In their shortcomings. In their not-enough-ness.

Jesus’s gospel dispossesses us of our cancerous, competitive spirits and shepherds us to find pasture in his enough-ness. He doesn’t dangle an elusive “better version of you” to motivate you to become better. Because there’s no such thing. Instead, he gives you his own righteousness. He gives you himself. “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree; so that, having died to sins, we might live for righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.” (1 Pet. 2:24; cf. Rom. 8:3; 2 Cor. 5:21; Gal. 3:13) By his blood, you are. By his grace, you go.

References

]]>A Better Promise Than a Better YouMeekness Isn’t WeaknessCommentariesBrad GrayTue, 23 Oct 2018 11:00:40 +0000https://graceupongrace.net/blog/meekness-isnt-weakness5be2ca6731d4df293dc3da58:5be2e4da4ae2375f27495f5b:5be40e855ccc0f34e0ad5d3bI don’t know about you, but I can’t remember the last time I used the word
“meekness” in a sentence. Regardless if it’s written or in conversation,
it’s not a word that frequents my vocabulary. I’m betting you can’t
remember when you used it last either.I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember the last time I used the word “meekness” in a sentence. Regardless if it’s written or in conversation, it’s not a word that frequents my vocabulary. I’m betting you can’t remember when you used it last either. It’s not a commonly used word nowadays, especially with our society’s affinity for strength at an all-time high. Incidentally, if you were to look at the popular definition for “meek” or “meekness,” it’s pretty apparent why it’s not referenced today. Meek is defined as “quiet, gentle, and easily imposed on; submissive.” Who’d want to sign up for those character traits, right?

We view those who are meek as doormats. People to step over or step on as we climb to the top rung of society. Meek people aren’t today’s Fortune 500 CEO’s or New York Times Bestsellers. They’re the ones who get lost in the dust of the successful. On these terms, the wake of the prosperous is full of meek people. Because in a culture that’s fixated on strength and success — on “being all that we can be” and “living strong” — there’s no space for meekness. There’s no place for those who are “easily imposed on.”

Therefore, when the apostle Paul describes the portrait of a Christian in the Fruits of the Spirit (Gal. 5:22–23), I wager that “meekness” is often the one fruit that’s left to fall out of the basket without much disturbance. However, upon further reflection, I am certain that meekness is, or should be, the usual posture of those who believe in Jesus’s resurrection. Indeed, it is the fact of the resurrection and the guarantee of redemption that form the groundwork upon which all meekness rests.

Some, though, attempt to supplant the “doormat” definition of meekness by redefining it as “strength under control.” While this is nearer the mark of biblical meekness, it doesn’t go far enough. It’s not sufficient to counter the mainstream perspective that “meekness is weakness.” As a result, we must hasten to survey portraits of meekness in Scripture and what bearing those portraits have on us today.

Biblical Pictures of Meekness

Perhaps the most common sketch of meekness comes from Numbers 12, where we are given the account of Moses receiving impassioned censure over the fact that he married “a Cushite woman.”

“Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman whom he had married, for he had married a Cushite woman. And they said, ‘Has the Lord indeed spoken only through Moses? Has he not spoken through us also?’ And the Lord heard it. Now the man Moses was very meek, more than all people who were on the face of the earth.” (Num. 12:1–3 ESV)

This scene is certainly a very intriguing one in the Old Testament narrative. Miriam and Aaron, prophetess and priest respectively, criticize Moses for his union with a Cushite woman, or as the King James renders it, “an Ethiopian woman” (who may or may not be Zipporah, but that’s beside the point). Now, it’s not explicitly clear as to the reason why Aaron and Miriam denounced this marriage. Some commentators note that it could’ve been the Ethiopian woman’s potential sway she had over Moses in the selection of the 70 elders. (Num. 11:16–30) Or, it could be merely a problem with race. The priest and prophetess could have been irate with their leader because of the nationality of his spouse. Considering human nature, that’s certainly plausible.

However, I’m not sure the specific reason for their criticism is the point. Rather, it’s the fact that Moses is described as one who “was very meek.” What’s more, taking that into account with the rest of the passage, we’re made to see that God is honored by the meekness and humble submissiveness of his servant. God calls the three actors of this scene out of their meeting and descends to them to speak directly at them. (Num. 12:4–6) And as the Lord opens his mouth, he reprimands Aaron and Miriam harshly — “the Lord’s anger burned against them” (Num. 12:9) — and vindicates Moses by saying, “He is faithful in all my household.” (Num. 12:7)

From this short account, we see that meekness in God’s followers is something that he honors. Moses understood that his vindication wasn’t up to his words. It was up to God’s. Moses didn’t need to defend himself in this matter, despite having reason to do so. (It was legally acceptable to marry a Cushite woman, so long as she was not of the stock of Canaan. See Ex. 34:11–16.) Moses remained quiet in the face of his critics, displaying a truly meek heart.

Courageous Meekness

By the same token, we need only remember the “Hebrew 3” from Daniel 3 to see another vivid picture of meekness. If you recall, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego have been taken captive in Babylon, and despite being summoned to bow in worship to Nebuchadnezzar’s golden image, they firmly resist this command and give this reply with courageous meekness:

“Nebuchadnezzar, we don’t need to give you an answer to this question. If the God we serve exists, then he can rescue us from the furnace of blazing fire, and he can rescue us from the power of you, the king. But even if he does not rescue us, we want you as king to know that we will not serve your God’s or worship the gold statue you set up.” (Dan. 3:16–18)

This emboldened speech in the face of a “blazing fire” that was made hotter just for them reveals the courageous meekness of God’s followers. Rather than kowtow to a tyrant’s demands, these “Hebrew 3” remain faithful to the Lord’s mission, never succumbing to demonstrating an exasperated defense of their actions in order to save their own skin. Instead, they stand in confidence on the assurance of God’s sovereignty, even if they lose everything, including their lives. And that, I believe, is what frustrates us most about the concept of meekness: being okay to lose.

Winning By Losing

We cannot tolerate losing, let alone allowing ourselves to associate with losers. That just won’t do. Therefore, the law of the day insists that any quality that’s perceived to be susceptible to losing ought to be cut off. That is to say, meekness is cast aside as being the pervading characteristic of losers. This, though, is precisely why the message of Jesus Christ throughout the Gospels was received with such disdain.

The widespread philosophy in Jesus’s day was that the promised Messiah would come to reclaim the throne and establish the Kingdom of God by way of force and violence. This was the ideology of the Zealots, one that had many adherents, most recognizably the two disciples whom Jesus met on the road to Emmaus. (Luke 24:13–27) Nevertheless, Jesus rejects this ideal and teaches the opposite. (John 18:36) His message was that God’s Kingdom would come peacefully, that is, through meekness.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven . . . Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth . . . Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 5:3, 5, 10 ESV)

Jesus’s declaration at the outset of the Sermon on the Mount speaks to the inversion of God’s Kingdom. Whereas our natural inclinations suppose violence and bloodshed as absolutely necessary for the establishing of kingdoms, Christ says it’s the meek, the persecuted, and the “poor in spirit” who will usher in the Kingdom. The Son of God, here, categorically declares that his Father’s realm isn’t like ours. It’s not controlled by the most forceful, nor is it established by the winners. Actually, it’s won by losing.

Defeat & Deference

If you remember, Jesus even rebukes one of his own disciples for succumbing to this very idea of “kingdom violence.” In Matthew 26, the delightfully dense Peter takes action in the Garden of Gethsemane when a mob armed with swords and clubs comes to take Christ captive. (Matt. 26:47–54) Not one to think twice, Peter hurriedly unsheathes his sword and attempts to defend his Lord’s life, missing the head of the servant and slicing off his ear. What you must note, though, about this account is that Jesus immediately reprimands not the mob arresting him but his disciple defending him.

“Put your sword back in its place because all who take up the sword will perish by the sword. Or do you think that I cannot call on my Father, and he will provide me here and now with more than twelve legions of angels? How, then, would the Scriptures be fulfilled that say it must happen this way?” (Matt. 26:52–54)

I believe these are some of the most important words to remember when attempting to understand biblical meekness. Forasmuch as we want to take matters into our own hands, Jesus urges us to let him take care of it all. Christ castigates Peter for thinking that the Kingdom of Heaven could be brought about by violence. Instead, he reaffirms that we don’t conquer, we don’t take. We’re not crusaders. That’s not how the Kingdom works.

God’s Kingdom isn’t established by our defense but by Christ’s defeat, and our deference.

The Meek Messiah

From here we see the marvelous image of biblical meekness in full display, not as a concept that relegates us to doormats but one that tells us where our true victory lies. The quiet submissiveness commanded by God is bent out of an understanding of Jesus’s “once for all” triumph. Meekness is the appropriate posture for those who understand that their ultimate victory isn’t up to them. It’s already been won for them by a truer and better Victor.

Jesus is the meek Messiah. With him, all is meekness and lowliness of heart. (Matt. 11:28–30) He defers his throne to take up residence with our filth. He dines with sinners and touches the unclean. He is the meek One who stands in our place. The One who never opened his mouth in the case against himself. (Isa. 53:7; Matt. 26:63; 1 Pet. 2:23) The One who shouldered all the taunts and retorts thrown at him. The One who bore all the brunt of the crowd’s abuse. By the Savior’s silence the salvation of sinners was secured. Not by force. Not by defense. Not by a sermon that acquitted his record but by humble, deferential obedience that led him “to the point of death — even to death on a cross.” (Phil. 2:8) The quiet submissiveness of Christ that led him to Calvary is the good news that you can never truly lose.

The Christ who gave all gives you everything. And if you already have everything, how can you lose anything? How can you truly lose when Jesus won everything for you? What’s the occasion for spiritual superiority when you’ve never won anything anyways? All that you are and have is because of Jesus. In his divine grace and power, he has “given us everything required for life and godliness.” (2 Pet. 1:3) Would we be so desperate to boast in our spiritual strongholds if we understood that the God of the universe has won the world for us already?

And so we see that biblical meekness is openhanded with its possessions, operating with the understanding that nothing can truly be lost if it’s never really owned. The high contrast of Jesus’s quiet submissiveness rails against our boisterous resistance to losing, and frees us to be “glad losers for Jesus!”

“Oh, that we may never hesitate to be glad losers for Jesus! They who lose all for Christ will find all in Christ, and receive all with Christ.” (Spurgeon, 165)

Modern Applications of Meekness

From these vignettes, we’re able to clearly see what biblical meekness is and, moreover, how it should impact our lives as Christians. God’s people are meek people, characterized by their steady, quiet submissiveness to God’s plan for their lives. Their confidence stems not from their ability to overcome but from Christ overcoming all for them. (John 16:33) The gospel of God instills in God’s people a deep-seated confidence that the Lord of all is for you, not against you. (Rom. 8:31; Ps. 118:6) This is biblical meekness.

I reckon that meekness is actually the culmination of the other fruits being worked in you. (Gal. 5:22–23) As the Spirit of God cultivates his love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, and faithfulness in you, the result is a soul that’s okay with losing, knowing its already won. You’ll be okay when things don’t go according to plan, because you know God’s plans are better, and he’s bringing about everything according to his will. Indeed, when God chisels away the old Adam in you, you’re forced to accept your utter dependence upon his grace to work things out.

This philosophy goes against all the ideals of the day. Whereas modern thinking says to fight, the gospel says to lay your life down. Lay your all down at the feet of the One who surrendered everything for you. This ends the needless quest for pay back or comeuppance. Meekness doesn’t seek out revenge, nor does it grip its reputation with a tight fist. (Titus 3:2) It absorbs criticisms without retaliation. (Rom. 12:14) Meekness liberates you to leave your reputation and vindication with God.

The Gospel of Meekness

This is not something we can cultivate ourselves. This type of quality is opposite to all that’s in us. It goes against every fiber of our being to embrace meekness. Accordingly, developing a meek heart necessitates a continual relearning of the gospel. It requires you to be honest with yourself and adamant about the mission of suppressing the innate desire to fight back or put ourselves first. Those who are meek are slow to anger and quick to listen. (James 1:19–21) They rightly understand their limitations and imperfections. They aren’t concerned with how they’re viewed in the world because they know that all that they are is wrapped up in Jesus’s grace to them.

“The meek man cares not at all who is greater than he, for he has long ago decided that the esteem of the world is not worth the effort . . . The meek man is not a human mouse afflicted with a sense of his own inferiority. Rather he may be in his moral life as bold as a lion and as strong as Samson; but he has stopped being fooled about himself. He has accepted God’s estimate of his own life. He knows he is as weak and helpless as God has declared him to be, but paradoxically, he knows at the same time that he is in the sight of God of more importance than angels. In himself, nothing; in God, everything. That is his motto. He knows well that the world will never see him as God sees him and he has stopped caring. He rests perfectly content to allow God to place his own values. He will be patient to wait for the day when everything will get its own price tag and real worth will come into its own. Then the righteous shall shine forth in the Kingdom of their Father. He is willing to wait for that day . . . In the meantime he will have attained a place of soul rest. As he walks on in meekness he will be happy to let God defend him. The old struggle to defend himself is over. He has found the peace which meekness brings.” (Tozer, 87–88)

Accordingly, we affirm that meekness is not weakness. Rather, it’s understanding where your true strength lies. Not in yourself. Not in your résumé or reputation but in your Redeemer. It’s an unspoken message to the world that the Messiah is in us. (1 Pet. 3:15) Those who are meek are humble and gentle, relying on their Savior’s might and not their own.

Meekness is peaceful freedom from the fretting and frenzy that follows the need to keep up appearances. (Ps. 37:11) It’s release from the burden to be “right, rewarded, regarded, and respected. Because Jesus came to set the captives free, life does not have to be a tireless effort to establish ourselves, justify ourselves, and validate ourselves.” (Tchividjian, 36) Meekness begins when we end the game of trusting in ourselves and begin trusting in God, when we stretch ourselves out on his victory.